A Young Girl's Guerilla War

[Scopas]

(In light of the recent threadlock on SB, I figured I'd take the opportunity to cross-post this story here as well. It is also on FF and AO3.)


Chapter 1: An Inauspicious Beginning


(AN: I am very much looking for a beta reader, or at least an editor. I had this idea and I wanted to write down what I had before it left, but I haven't had the opportunity or energy to write for fun for quite a while, so I'm probably rusty.)


The shrill whistle of incoming shells startled me awake, but before my mind had fully engaged I was already in motion. Rolling out of my cot, I began to reach for the computation orb hanging from my jacket even as my sleepy brain tried desperately to come to terms with the situation. Time seemed to slow as the incoming scream crescendo'ed, and I lunged forward, heaving myself across the dark confines of the flimsy canvas tent, scrabbling for my one shield against the shrapnel and concussive power of high-explosive 105 shells.


How is the artillery reaching us?! We're miles behind the li-


Even as my reaching fingers closed around the Type 97, the endless second of noise and confused panic ended abruptly in an incandescence of white light and overwhelming noise. There was no way to describe the moments that came immediately after, but as the light faded and the sound of the explosion was drowned out by the fresh bursts of following shells, the pain slammed through my shredded nerves and crashed my train of thought. The shock of being shelled, and the shock of... something... happening to me had left me numb, but my rational and well-trained mind recovered in seconds. I knew that the darkness surrounding me was not caused by the tent's canopy blocking out all light, as the cheap material barely kept out the glare of the constant star shells at the best of times, and besides, I couldn't blink. In fact...


Experimentation and empirical evidence are important, I argued with myself, trying to convince my unwilling body to move. I must take stock of any damage so I can plan accordingly.


Despite these sound arguments, I felt a quiver of fear deep inside me at the prospect of what I might discover, but I quashed that emotion as unworthy of a professional soldier and a rational individual, and so forced myself to move, to touch my face with my left hand to see what was covering my eyes... Or I tried to. For one reason or another, my left arm didn't seem to be obeying my orders. In fact, I couldn't feel it at all beneath the shoulder. How peculiar. I tried to lift my right arm instead, but found a similarly strange result when only the upper part of my arm twitched into motion.


That shell must have detonated very close to my tent. My internal voice was absurdly calm. I had always tried to remain calm about issues and problems I could do little about, considering raging against things beyond my control a childish reaction at best, but... I can't feel my arms. I can't move my eyes. I can feel my body, but... The numbness from the explosion was fading fast, and every scrap of rationality and emotional control I'd built up over two lives struggled to maintain my internal calm and deny the obvious implications.


And all of a sudden, I couldn't deny the obvious any longer. I had spent almost a year on the Rhine Front, months of intense combat in the trenches and the skies over the torn and blasted land, and I had seen many men die from the relentless and impersonal explosions of the artillery. Almost universally, soldiers agreed that death by artillery was the worst – it shredded the body, leaving horrible injuries on the living and reducing the dead to mince. At least getting shot left a mostly-clean corpse behind, something that could be buried in a casket instead of a coffee can. The worst part of shelling was how inescapable it was, and how you could never be sure you were safe...


Aerial mages, of course, didn't feel the same existential horror that the mundane infantry felt about artillery. Very rarely were mages killed by artillery strikes, as most of our time at the front was spent airborne, and even a weak magic shield could protect against most shrapnel and blast waves. Aerial mages tended to fear other aerial mages, aces like myself, rather than the impersonal grinding horror of drumfire or the sudden hurricane bursts of shells that heralded another enemy attack across No Man's Land.


But... I hadn't been airborne. I hadn't been awake enough to spin up a shield, or to fly away from the impact. I had been asleep in a tent after a twenty-eight hour patrol with the rest of the 203rd, preparing for Operation Revolving Door and keeping the Republic's mages away from our lines...


Is this what you wanted, Being X? I snarled inside my mind, my mouth unaccountably unresponsive. Did you think this would make me pray, hmm? Foolishness! I channeled my rising panic into anger at the alleged divinity, yelling at him and stridently ignoring the painful tingling beginning to fill my body as the numbness continued to dwindle away. How is this supposed to encourage faith?! Death by artillery is purely bad luck, and if anything proves your lack of omnipotence! If you were a god, you wouldn't let something as uncaring and random as artillery simply kill your flock! What terrible human resource management!


To my surprise, I found the lack of any response horrifying. While I had never been happy to hear from that obnoxious false god before, hearing from anybody, anything would have been a welcome distraction from my current situation. Worse, if he wasn't responding... Being X? Are... Are you there...?


Only silence. I was alone. And I had no mouth, no eyes, no hands. No magic. I was alone, and I was dying, and I was so scared, and so tired, and I just wanted some of Visha's coffee and a bar of chocolate and Please, please, please! Help me! Did you want prayer? That's what you wanted, right?! I'll pray to you! I'll use the Type 95! Just please! Help me! Not like this! I don't want to die like this!


A few minutes after the shell had exploded fifty meters from her tent, Tanya von Degurchaff died from exsanguination caused by her injuries sustained from the shrapnel.


A minute after that, Being X returned from his celestial coffee break to check in on his pet nonbeliever, and rolling thunder momentarily blotted out the sounds of war as he cursed his bad luck. Acting quickly, he was able to grab the nonbeliever's soul from the processing queue – quite full today, and managed to divert it to himself instead. He still had a point to make, a soul to redeem... and no damned random frankish cannon was going to end his game prematurely!


And so, for the second time, Tanya found herself in the body of a newborn. Big blue eyes blinked once, twice, and then immediately began tearing up as the tiny frame of the infant released an astonishingly loud howl of outrage.


The world paused. The nurse, thankfully not a nun this time and dressed in a uniform identical to those from my memories of hospital trips in my first life, stopped jotting down notes on her clipboard and looked up at me. I was struck by the memory of eyes and faces moving in another frozen moment, and was struck with a deep sense of anger and shame. I knew that Being X wouldn't let me escape so easily, and had clearly decided to force another life on me once more to continue his ridiculous attempt to prove his divine nature. That explained the anger. The shame came from knowing that, in the end, I had broken down and asked for his help. I had given up the fight and, like a drowning man, reached for even the flimsiest of life-ropes to save me. I was certain that he'd gloat about that, about how he'd always known I'd pray in the end...


HELLO AGAIN, MY CHILD. IT SEEMS AS IF YOUR PREVIOUS TEST WAS CUT SHORT.


Quit playing around, you incompetent! I snarled back. If you're here to gloat, you should spend your time doing your job instead! If you were my employee, I would reprimand you for misuse of company time!


Somehow, the puppeted nurse's face looked... embarrassed? Chagrined, maybe?


DUE TO UNFORESEEN ISSUES, YOUR LAST LIFE ENDED BEFORE I HAD ORDAINED IT TO DO SO. AS A RESULT, I HAVE DECIDED TO GENEROUSLY GRANT YOU ANOTHER ATTEMPT AT TRUE GRACE.


Wait, he... It hadn't intended for me to die? That wasn't a gambit by Being X to make me pray? My mind reeled at the thought. On one hand, I had been proven unambiguously correct – this creature was no god. It hadn't intended for me to die, yet I had, proving that it was not omnipotent. And seeing how it hadn't mentioned my last futile prayer, the only truly sincere prayer I had ever made, it clearly wasn't omniscient either. On the other hand, it meant that the only time I had sincerely prayed, nobody had heard it, and this new life wasn't the result of any faith or such nonsense, but the pure pettiness of a bully who couldn't stand to let his victim escape, even through death.


Oh, spare me your lies – you and I both know you're no god. That artillery shell was more a god than you are, and did a far better job inspiring faith than any amount of petty bureaucrats ever will!


YOUR CONTINUED LACK OF FAITH SADDENS ME, BUT YOUR ADMITTENCE OF ANY DEGREE OF FAITH GIVES ME HOPE FOR THE SALVATION OF YOUR SOUL. I SHALL GIVE YOU ANOTHER LIFE OF WAR AND STRUGGLE, THAT YOU MIGHT COME TO KNOW ME ONCE AND FOR ALL. GO FORTH AND PREACH MY EVANGEL.


And just like that, time resumed. The false god vanished, the nurse returned to her notations, and free of any social expectation or need for emotional constraint, my new body screamed its wrath at this latest injustice until I was gagged with a bottle of formula.


Another life... Years as an infant, learning to walk and talk again... And then puberty... I'd barely started it last time around, damn the lack of nutrition in Imperial Army rations... Damn you, Being X! I hope this whole affair stands as a black mark upon whatever record your supervisors maintain!


---------


And so, my third life began. This one was something of a mixed bag from the word go, as I had been reborn in my native land of Japan, yet retained my female body from my second life. Shockingly, for a Japanese child, I seemed to have retained more than just my gender from my previously life – a look at my reflection in the window into the maternity ward showed that I had the same bright blue eyes as before, and I could see a hint of blonde fuzz beneath the warm knitted cap on my head.


I was happy that I had been reborn in such a reasonable time. Judging by the garb of adults – parents, doctors, and nurses – that passed through the ward, I had been reborn around the same time my first life had ended. That meant I was born in a country and time where logic, rationality, and hierarchy were prioritized, and where my skills from my first life could smoothly transfer over. In a way, I supposed that Being X had done me a favor by reincarnating me in such an ideal and peaceful time, presumably by accident. I decided that I would capitalize upon its mistake, and live my life to the fullest here, far from the shells and mud and blood of my previous life.


And so, I grew.


Years passed. I was walking and talking once more within a year or so, and had finally managed to strengthen my new mouth and tongue to the point where I could speak in full sentences by the time I was two. My life was fairly easy as a non-orphaned child, even if only my mother seemed to be in the picture, and even though she had to frequently leave me with a neighbor woman after I was fully weaned. My mother seemed to work nights, presumably at some sort of hostess club considering her work outfits, and never seemed to be around much as she slept during most of the day. The neighbor woman she left me with made sure that I was fed adequately, and otherwise thankfully left me alone in a cradle for the first year, and then a pen for the second and third. I taught myself to use the toilet as soon as I had the leg strength to do so, freeing myself from the indignation of diapers and further reducing the number of times she had to interact with me.


Unfortunately, this left me with long periods of time on my hands with little I could do as far as professional development or education went. I began to keep myself occupied by reading whatever scrap of paper I could find, and by jolting down and solving various geometric proofs and algebraic equations to keep my math skills somewhat fresh. This seemed to spook the woman, as she reacted poorly the first time she found one of my proofs. I know that my handwriting is poor, especially considering the weak hands I'm working with, but I don't think it merited wide eyes or such a sudden and startling intake of breath.


Thankfully, this fright on her part yielded a solution to my boredom. My mother opted to enroll me in kindergarten earlier than normal, giving me something to do with myself other than scribble on loose envelopes and the like. The program she enrolled me in was highly-structured, with all activities geared towards admittance into a private elementary school. While this would undeniably tax my mother's income, I made sure to focus on my studies, hoping I could do well enough to earn some form of scholarship for admittance. Failing that, if I had to attend public school, perhaps good exam scores could earn me advanced placement or whatnot. This would be my first path on the road to success, so I couldn't do anything but my best.


And in the end, my best proved good enough. I somehow managed to be awarded a full-tuition scholarship to an elementary school at age four, which clearly must have been desperate to increase enrollment if they were willing to hand out free rides to kindergarteners. My mother was deeply relieved by the news, as it certainly meant that she could save more money from her hostess job. Hopefully this would go into continuing to pay our rent and bills, and she would be relieved enough to stop spending so much of her income on cheap beer and terrible sake.


My first year of elementary school went tolerably well. Math and Japanese were, of course, no issue for me, and I was even able to impress a foreign language instructor with my rusty English. History class was a bit more interesting, because while Japan's history was much as I remembered it, there were a handful of references to peculiar differences. Some mineral called 'Sakuradite' was apparently a major export of Japan, and Perry's ships had had electric motors. Clearly, my impressions of my new world over the last four years had been at least partially in error – this was not my original Japan, but one quite similar to the Japan I remembered. I decided to investigate a bit further, and requested a world history primer from my history teacher. The middle-aged man was kind, and gave me a 3rd grade textbook to read after I finished my homework. He seemed gratified by my interest in his subject, particularly as I recited the old saw about "those who do not learn from history".


Returning to my desk, I found that world history outside of Japan was strikingly different from what I remembered from my past two lives. For one thing, the bulk of the Americas appeared to be united under a British empire. Given that the name of this superstate was the "Holy Britannian Empire", I could only assume that was Being X's favored player in this world's geopolitics. All of Europe and Russia, as well as most of Africa, appeared to have also been united under a single flag as well, called Europa United. Interestingly, despite the "Britannian" empire, the British Isles were part of the EU. A third superpower united most of mainland Asia, including China and India, and was called the Chinese Federation. Apart from the three major players, apparently the fractious Middle East had united into a federation of its own as well, with an independent Kingdom of Zilkhstan to its east. Strangely enough, Australia appeared to be entirely independent and went almost entirely unmentioned throughout the textbook. It was as if the entire world had decided to ignore the continent.


Despite my relative academic success, my school life was considerably less than ideal. With my decidedly non-Japanese blonde hair and blue eyes, I was immediately marked out as different, a hafu or the like. Fortunately, once most of the other children realized that petty taunts about my appearance rolled off my back, they began to simply ignore and exclude me from their socializing, which was fine with me. The few who tried to shove me were dealt with as gently as I could manage before bringing over a teacher. To my joy, I discovered that Being X had slipped up once more, and I retained the magic I'd been born with in my second life. Like riding a bicycle, the years of disuse hadn't dulled my memories of casting body and reflex enhancements more or less continuously for years of combat, but I lacked any sort of orb to effectively use my power. The most I could do was minor physical enhancements, but those proved more than adequate for dealing with fellow children. Fortunately, as I was a small girl two years younger than my assailants, I was never blamed for any of these altercations, and my record remained free of any reprimands.


Petty schoolyard squabbles aside, another source of anxiety had begun to intrude upon my life. Every day on my walk home, I passed a convenience store that had a television tuned to the NHK news channel. Each day, the news reported increased aggression by the Britannians in across the world. As 2008 ATB drew to a close, the Britannians began an invasion in Indochina, nominally part of the Chinese Federation. While Japan was not directly targeted, the Britannian Empire had begun to assert heavy economic pressure on Japan, despite the government's statements of protest. Knowing Being X, and having experienced first-hand the march to war back in the Empire in my previous life, I was certain that things would go from bad to worse. This concern fueled my resolve to succeed as a student – after all, if I was a diligent student, the likelihood of being put on some sort of labor rota or last ditch militia in the worst case scenario would naturally decrease.


I tried to inquire with my mother about the scraps of news I'd managed to compile, as I knew from my first life that drunken men often revealed an unwise amount of information to attractive ladies, and I hoped she might have some sort of insight about the spiraling national crisis. Unfortunately, after my first mention of the Britannians, she interrupted with a rant about my heretofore unknown father, completely derailing the conversation. Apparently, he had been a Britannian merchant seaman who had engaged her services one night before leaving port. He had claimed to have a vasectomy, and used his own condom which had apparently been past its use-by date, as it had torn and she had not noticed. Beyond that point, her drunken ranting had grown ever more indecipherable, and I did my best to tune it out as I mulled over the newly discovered information. Apparently, my mother didn't work as a hostess as I'd thought, and I was half-Britannian by blood and a spitting female image of my father. This failed to explain why I'd ended up with the name "Tanya" again, but perhaps it did partially explain my mother's seeming unwillingness to interact with me, even if did betray her lackluster parental skills.


And so, another two years went by. I skipped another grade, at the recommendations of the History and English teachers, who were both overly impressed with my paltry skills. But, being a rational and socially conscious individual, I kindly thanked them both for their recommendations and moved on. I enrolled as a 4th grader at age 6, and continued to study diligently knowing that in a mere two years I would have to be ready for middle school entrance exams.


---------


The inevitable war, when it finally came, began after a masterful fakeout by the Britannian empire. The government of Japan had managed to walk a diplomatic tightrope for years, leveraging its supply of Sakuradite to make any attack on it by one of the three superpowers unthinkable, as the other two would counter to prevent the Sakuradite mines falling into enemy hands. As such, Prime Minister Kururugi had been apparently gotten overly comfortable, and had clearly let the military slide when it came to drawing up adequate plans for the defense of the islands. He'd clearly underpaid whatever intelligence services he'd had at his disposal as well, as nobody had realized the Britannian fleet movements in the Indian Ocean had been a feint until it was far too late.


The war had been brutal and one-sided. The Britannians used combined arms tactics with incredible success, complete with airstrikes, naval bombardments, and operations conducted by infantry formations supported by armored units. The deciding factor, though, was obviously the "Knightmare Frames" that had blitzed through Japanese coastal defenses and effortlessly destroyed any Japanese tank or APC unlucky enough to encounter them. These Knightmares, torn straight from any mecha anime you could name, looked patently absurd to me, skating through the narrow streets of Tokyo and wrecking incredible damage on every piece of infrastructure in their path. I suppose I couldn't be overly critical, considering how silly I'd no doubt looked swooping around like a magical girl in my previous life, but they looked... clunky, somehow, to me.


Clunky though they might be, their effectiveness was undeniable. Within a day, the war was effectively decided. Some lucky fool managed to win a victory over the Britannians at Itsukushima, and even more impressively managed to retreat into the mountainous interior of central Honshu without being run down by the Britannians, but ultimately his victory was futile. The government surrendered unconditionally a month after hostilities began, and Japan became Area 11. Apparently, there was talk about the army attempting to establish a redoubt in Hokkaido, but all such whispers abruptly ended after the news of Prime Minister Kururugi's ritual suicide was broadcast.


For my part, I was, of course, less than thrilled about Japan's unceremonious and thorough defeat, and I couldn't help compare the defense efforts here to the Empire's ceaseless watch on the Rhine. Still, at first I assumed that the swift conquest of such a modern nation would decrease the amount and degree of social dislocation suffered by the defeated population. After all, the government had surrendered practically intact, and only some areas of the cities had seen intense enough fighting to completely level the local structures and roads. Most of the infrastructure remained intact, so surely life could proceed on as it generally had before we'd lost our independence. I was soon disabused of such enlightened thoughts as the true face of Britannian occupation became known.


First, we were not citizens of Britannia, rather we were Numbers, non-Britannian residents of conquered lands. As Numbers, we had no political rights and few social rights, and apparently Britannia did not recognize any concept of universal human rights either. Functionally, being a Number meant being a member of a slave population from birth, even though we could work and own money and property. If a Britannian claimed such property as their own, claims would apparently go through Britannian courts, who apparently routinely sided with the Britannian plaintiffs even when they entirely lacked evidence. Further, if any Number was believed to be a member of a resistance organization, they could be executed immediately by any member of the Britannian police or armed forces who apprehended them.


Second, the Britannians immediately made their presence known by removing all Japanese from significant parts of Tokyo and other large cities, designating entire districts as part of the Britannian Concession. The only time Japanese, or Elevens as we were now, could enter the Concession was if we were employed there, and we were required to leave as soon as our shift ended. These Britannian-only areas were the only places rebuilt after the end of the war, with Eleven districts being left in states ranging from disrepair to outright ruin.


This was unacceptable, for me. While I had never particularly considered myself a nationalist – after all, enlightened self-interest was the principle motivator of an ideal capitalist system – the almost contemptuous way the Britannians had slapped us down rankled my Japanese heart. Further, this degradation of my personal circumstances was nothing short of a slap in the face. I had done nothing to wrong the Britannian Empire or any of its agents! I had wanted nothing but a comfortable life, and I had spent years of mostly solitary hard work towards that goal! I had done my best to be a good student, and to respect my mother – the little I saw of her – but suddenly all of that work was wasted. And for what? For a government that had believed that we could stand against an empire that stretched across continents? For an empire that was so hungry for Sakuradite that they couldn't simply buy it like civilized men, but had to wrest it away by force?


Going from a tolerable position as a precocious student working her way up the social and educational ladder into respectability to a position as a second-class citizen in my own homeland severely hurt my belief in the system. Both my previous lives had taught me that, given hard work and time, any sane society would let a dedicated individual climb the ladder to safe and comfortable respectability. Even the war-mad lunatics in my second life's government had given me a shiny medal and a promotion after I demonstrated my loyalty and utility for them over Norden. But this time around... This time I hadn't been able to do anything to either help my countrymen or help the invaders. I was a non-entity, a powerless child who at worst was just another piece of collateral damage waiting to happen. I was lucky I hadn't been blown up again in the invasion, or been attacked by angry Japanese wanting to hurt someone they saw as Britannian.


Matters failed to improve for either myself or Tokyo. The Britannian Concession seemed to grow daily, and soon my district was designated as Britannian-only. My mother and I were moved to Shinjuku Ghetto, a region that had seen particularly harsh fighting between the retreating Japanese Army and the invading Britannians. Available housing was minimal, to say the least, and to make matters worse we had only been permitted to take a single bag of possessions each when we were evicted from our apartment. My schoolbag was crammed full of clothes, while my mother's suitcase contained whatever household goods would fit as well as our identification papers. We hadn't bothered taking my mother's meager supply of Japanese currency, as it had been declared invalid, and so we arrived in Shinjuku penniless with barely more than the clothes on our backs. There was barely any housing available, and no schools or hospitals to speak of. Fortunately, my mother found a room in an apartment that the owner was willing to rent to us, and she began working again. She managed to secure employment in the Britannian Concession for a frightfully poor wage, and I didn't ask about the bruises she frequently returned home with, nor how she managed to pay the rent and keep us fed.


For my part, as formal education was no longer an option, I entered the workforce as well, helping a neighborhood association that had formed from the local evacuees remove rubble from the street. The work was hard, especially for my six year old frame, but the minor strength enhancement I could reliably cast made it doable. I still carried far fewer bricks and chunks of rubble to the wheelbarrow than the other workers, but I doubted anybody would judge a kid too harshly for being unproductive compared to adults. The payment was equally lousy – a bowl of watery miso with vague shapes floating in it for breakfast, and a bowl of whatever was cooking in the communal pot at dinnertime – but it was enough to ward off starvation.


While I tried my best to simply carry on with my life as best I could and not make trouble for myself or my neighbors, not all the newly minted Elevens around me were equally thoughtful. Even before the first Britannian colonists arrived, the first resistance groups had begun to coalesce. Groups of soldiers who had thrown off their uniforms but kept their rifles, sons and daughters of the civilians killed during the fighting, various criminal organizations, and random groups of angry young men all mixed and blurred in a disreputable soup in the corners of Shinjuku Ghetto, and soon graffiti from various organizations began appearing everywhere. Daubed on walls of crumbling apartment blocks and subway tunnels crammed full of homeless refugees from the new Concession, the tags proclaimed that Japan still lived, and that the Yamato Spirit was in the hands of groups like "The Blood of the Samurai" and "The Black Sea Society". Fanciful names and unfounded boasting, in my opinion. So far, none of these groups had done much more than throw stones at Britannian patrols, probably because the soldiers tended to respond with uncontrolled bursts of indiscriminate gunfire.


I respected their desire to continue to fight, but I couldn't help but resent the new rebel groups almost as much as I resented the Britannians. Their feeble attempts to resist the grinding wheels of oppression did nothing to actually help anybody in the ghetto, as far as I could tell, and every time they actually did something that irritated the Britannians, the reprisals were both brutal and inevitable. I'd read about the Irish Troubles as a child, back in my first life during Contemporary History classes, but my years in the Shinjuku Ghetto showed that even the most iron-handed of the British had been as respectful of the laws of war as I had ever been, compared to the conduct of the Britannians. The first time a drunken Britannian soldier, staggering back to the Concession from some dive bar near the border of the ghetto, had been knifed in the kidney and left to die on the street, I'd been somewhat gleeful. The surge of knowing that the Japanese had gotten some of their own back was intoxicating, and reminded me of the pleasure of raining artillery spells down on Entente fortifications. That joyous feeling turned to choking ash when I heard about the British response the next day. One hundred random Elevens had been grabbed off the streets, lined up against the wall, and unceremoniously shot. One didn't need my mastery of signaling theory to understand the message the Britannians were sending. The price of a single Britannian life was a hundred Eleven lives. My enthusiasm for the resistance dimmed after that particular incident, and I resolved to keep my head down as best I could.


And so, time ground on. I continued to haul rubble for my daily meals as my mother continued to work at night. While we eventually got the streets mostly cleared of rubble and debris, the overcrowded tenements of Shinjuku continued to fall apart, even as the incredibly gaudy architecture of the new Britannian Concession rose ever higher, dominating the skyline with spires and towers, all built upon the conquered ruins of Tokyo. The never ending construction of the Concession, as well as the numerous suburban housing projects for Britannian families and the construction of manors for the nobles who had come to live and administer Area 11, had the side benefit of pumping some Britannian money into the Japanese sector, and gradually conditions improved. Few people were outright starving anymore, and jobs other than street cleaning began to open up. It did my heart proud to see the flower of the free market beginning to spring anew from the cracked cement of Shinjuku.


Of course, the free market was no longer constrained to respectable public actors. The policing of the slum had degenerated as the Britannians grew more confident in their conquest, and the only time armed incursions of Britannian police intruded into Shinjuku was when one of the resistance groups or another did something to aggravate the Britannians. In those cases, APCs full of soldiers backed by Knight Police – demilitarized Knightmare Frames armed with "non-lethal" weapons – would storm whatever building or tunnel had been identified as a rebel hideout. They'd drag away anybody who wasn't killed in the course of these stormings, and sometimes the lucky ones would even return to the Ghetto. The unlucky either disappeared entirely, or ended up on one of the chain gangs building the new mag-lev high-speed rail for the Britannians. Admittedly, this was a large step up from the mass executions of the first year after the Conquest, but it was still collective punishment. Arguably worse, this lack of any sort of policing meant that gangs more or less operated at will in the ghetto. Drug use and alcoholism skyrocketed, and any feeble business the Britannians allowed to grow in the slums was inevitably crushed under demands for protection money. Honestly, I had hoped that the omnipresent poverty of the ghetto would improve things, as nobody here had anything left to steal. Unfortunately, my understanding of the criminal mind was clearly lacking, as the gangs continued to fight for whatever scraps fell from the Britannian table instead of trying to actually grow their capital through gainful employment.



Eventually, years had passed between the humiliation of our one day defeat and the present. Things had improved in some areas, and not so much in others. The Britannians had finally reopened schools for Elevens, and had begun to institute some public health measures after a nasty cholera outbreak in Osaka.


The schools were unfortunately subpar, and mostly focused on pushing Britannian propaganda. I learned much about the Social Darwinism beloved by our emperor, Charles zi Britannia, and much about the glories of the Britannian Empire, but very little of any real importance or use. For the first time, however, my mixed heritage broke my way, at least for a while. The Britannian instructors at the Shinjuku School for Elevens were very surprised and apparently confused at finding a blue-eyed blonde with the name "Hajime Tanya" in their classes, but soon decided that my last name indicated I was Eleven, phenotype be damned.


At first, I had tried to stick to my guns and keep soldiering along on the path to a safe desk job, swallowing all the propaganda for my teachers and repeating it back, but my hopes were soon dashed once more. I asked one of the Britannian teachers what potential employment this coursework was preparing us for, and the man could barely suppress a laugh. I was told that the only work for Elevens was menial labor, unless I got lucky enough to catch the eye of a noble and be employed by his household. The way he phrased that option made me uncomfortable, and so I attempted to hurry up and ask about joining the army, only to be once more disappointed. Apparently, Numbers weren't allowed to join the armed forces, lest we end up shooting ourselves in the foot, according to the instructor. As such, after only a month at the Shinjuku School for Elevens, I left and returned to work. The school administration didn't even have the courtesy to provide us with a free lunch to help the propaganda go down – even the nuns back at the orphanage had fed us.


While the need for strong arms to haul rubble had decreased, there was still plenty of work to do, and I could always find someone who would spare a meal or two for ten or twelve hours of manual labor. As a result, I had begun to put on some muscle from all the work, but the lack of food was probably badly stunting my future growth. I sometimes despaired that I would be even shorter in this life than I had been back in the Empire, particularly since the Britannians didn't seem interested in employing all these willing and hungry hands in any capacity above day labor. Even more disheartening, it seemed like the closest thing to a cushy job I could ever hope for by playing by their rules was an appointment as a janitor, or if I got profoundly lucky, a lowly office menial. The Britannians were even worse than the communists when it came to managing their human resources, I decided, probably as a result of their hereditary political elite who approved of assassination as a method of succession. Merit and hardwork didn't matter, only the ability to have the right connections and the right blood.


Worse than their lack of upwards mobility and reliance upon inheritance for political legitimacy, the Britannian system was deeply and profoundly racist. I looked just like them, but my surname and status as an Eleven made me practically sub-human. If an Eleven was publically beaten by Britannians, nothing would come of it, unless the Eleven tried to resist, in which case he'd be arrested for assault. This angered me on a number of levels. As an experienced manager, this acceptance of bias into the talent acquisition and management process galled me with its inherent inefficiency. As a rational person, this categorical judgement and abuse irritated me as an assault upon the rational basis of a just and equitable society. And as an individual, an Eleven, knowing that my place in the world was fixed, and that nothing I could ever do would make me a full human in the eyes of the invaders occupying my once and again homeland... I'm embarrassed to admit how the passionate emotions made my stomach churn with acid. I hadn't been this furious in years, not since I woke up for a second time as an infant. Once again, a power that I had done nothing to and which was far too strong for me to resist had forced me into a horrible and degrading situation.


I tried to press that train of thought down and continue my life of work, but it wouldn't leave my mind. In both the corporate culture of my first life and the military culture of my second life, schmoozing and connections were important, but they weren't the end-all, be-all. If you worked hard and showed results and promise, you could make a living for yourself. I had managed it as an orphan in my second life, after all. But here in my third life, Being X had really gotten me up against the wall. I wasn't a Britannian, much less a noble, so comfortable government employment wasn't even a dream for me this time around. No matter how I looked at it, there was no way for me to reach prosperity through the system as it existed.


Which only left me two options, which I thought about as I scrubbed floors, picked vegetables, swept streets, delivered packages, and tried to block out the sounds of my mother at night in the next room over with the owner of the apartment we sublet our room from. I could either try to reform the system from the inside, or I could try to tear it down. Frankly, neither appealed to me. Reform was impossible without leverage and connections, of which I had neither. Plus, considering how the government was a hereditary absolute monarchy with a hereditary aristocracy, any reforms I managed to get implemented could simply be overturned by whichever corrupt, inbred imbecile lucked into the throne next. Fighting the system seemed equally futile from where I was sitting. The combined military-industrial complex of my nation had been squashed in hours, and the only halfway effective resistance I'd ever heard of were the dead enders from that same army hiding up in the mountains. The local resistance cells were lucky if they had access to small arms and a handful of ammunition, and it seemed like any attempt to fight back they made simply made life worse for all the rest of us.


On my eleventh birthday, my dithering over two unpalatable options was brought to a temporary end by an unforeseen change in my life circumstances. My relationship with my mother had never been... well, it had never really existed, to be honest. We had occupied the same space, and she's paid the rent, but I had worked all day and she worked all night. She had never expressed any sort of emotional attachment to me, even before the invasion, and I had returned her lack of interest with a pleasantly professional and detached face. Perhaps we could have been more than that, but I was never good at getting close to people, and she never seemed to get past my father's Britannian blonde hair and blue eyes.


She'd been found in one of the streets running from the checkpoints where Elevens could enter the Concession towards Shinjuku. I don't know the details of her death, but the young man, a Kanami Ohgi, who came and told me about her passing gently told me that she'd likely never seen it coming, whatever "it" was. I wasn't sure if I cared what had happened to her, but the impact of her sudden death on me was immediate, as our erstwhile landlord immediately kicked me out before Ohgi had even left. In a matter of minutes, I found myself back where I was after the invasion: on the street with an old schoolbag full of clothes without any money to my name or a place to go.


Fortunately, Ohgi, who it turned out was a former teacher, felt sorry for a newly orphaned girl thrust out onto the dilapidated Shinjuku streets, and offered to let me sleep on the floor of the room he shared with his best friend for a few days until I could figure something out. I was wary of his offer, considering I had only known the man for ten minutes, but I wasn't particularly spoiled for choice, and so I ended up accepting his kind gesture.


I followed the heavily quiffed man through Shinjuku to a slightly less rundown apartment building than my former residence, and walked up the urine-scented stairs to the seventh floor. Calling the somewhat dingy studio an apartment was generous, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Ohgi seemed somewhat anxious when speaking with me, and treated me with a peculiar degree of care, as if he thought I would crumble at any given moment. I could only assume that his background as a teacher made him particularly knowledgeable about the moodiness of children, and he was just trying to make me comfortable and not set me off over some small inconvenience or whatnot. The first few minutes passed quickly enough, as he lay out a spare blanket and pillow on the floor by the foot of one of the two beds occupying much of the dingy room and showed me where I could stash my bag of clothes, but after the initial flurry of activity ended an uncomfortable silence filled the room. Presumably, Ohgi had nothing further to say to me, and I certainly didn't feel any need to ask the man giving me free room any questions, lest he reconsider his generous offer.


Fortunately, the awkward atmosphere was broken only a half hour later, when Ohgi's roommate arrived. Kozuki Naoto instantly dominated the room as soon as he entered, a friendly smile on his face and a bulging bag dangling in one hand. He had the sort of easy charisma that any good recruiter would kill for, coupled with a handsome build. Interestingly, he was very clearly a half-breed like me – his eyes were too wide, his hair was a dark red, and he was tall for a Japanese man.


Ohgi exhaled an audible sigh of relief as Naoto locked the door behind him before getting to his feet. The two men greeted each other with an intensity I hadn't expected, half-hugging each other with a degree of emotion I didn't expect from my countrymen. I began to wonder about the true nature of their relationship, best friends sharing a room or something beyond, but quickly pushed it out of my head. No good HR manager lets biases or assumptions inform them about new hires, and I was proud of my ability to treat people without any of the biases I had grown up with in either my previous life in Japan, or my upbringing in a church orphanage. That said, I did feel a bit more secure in my new housing arrangement if what I suspected was true.


My thoughts about the possible nature of their relationship screeched to a sudden halt as Naoto opened the bag he'd brought on the table, revealing the numerous spherical objects haphazardly crammed into the old bowling bag. Even from across the room, I could recognize the distinctive 'pineapple' shape of modern hand grenades.


"The boys from the Yamato Faction over in Kasumigaseki got 'em from a supply truck they'd hijacked two months ago," Naoto was explaining to Ohgi "and they said they've got a line on a warehouse that's supposed to be full of landmines! Apparently, they're slated for some noble manor's outer security, but we can probably take a crate or three before they ship them out if we move before next weekend."


My eyes widened with disbelief as Ohgi chuckled at that alarming bit of news. "Tamaki's going to love them. I swear he's gonna blow his hands off one of these days, the way he clowns around with anything that goes 'Boom'!" He stepped away from the table, and gestured over towards me. "Hey, Naoto, enough about business for now – meet Hajime Tanya."

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 2: An Accidental Recruitment

(AN: Thank you to Siatru for beta reading this chapter. I greatly appreciate it. And thank you for all of the comments, and for reading.)


For a brief moment, Naoto stared blankly at Ohgi, slightly frowning with confusion, before following his companion's gesture towards my bundle of blankets, where I was sitting. The blank look of confusion sublimated into an expression of chagrined shock, presumably at having not noticed a stranger in his room in his excitement to show off his cargo of grenades. Already he reminded me of my crew of pet maniacs – if you'd given any random member of the 203rd non-Kbrot food or a shiny new weapon, I'm sure they'd be equally blasé about operational security.


The shock quickly cycled through an expression of acute disbelief, before igniting into a brief flare of panic. The redheaded man lurched forward, interposing himself between the open sack of explosives on the table and myself like a guilty child trying to hide a purloined cookie jar from an unexpected intruder, before he visibly wrestled his emotions back under control and took a deep breath.


"Ohgi. Why is there a Britannian child in our apartment?" While he was speaking to Ohgi, his eyes never left me, and his hand had begun to slide behind his back, no doubt to retrieve some kind of weapon. This was bad!


He's mistaken me for a Britannian, and child or not, I'm a witness to... whatever it is he's up to! My thoughts blurred together as my adrenaline began to surge, fight or flight instincts coming to the fore just like so many times before, a world away. He and Ohgi must be in the Resistance! I've fallen into a nest of rebels and criminals! Worse yet, this Naoto was clearly the dominant personality, likely the leader of their little terrorist cell. Ohgi might not want to cross his boss and put his own skin on the line even further by speaking up for me! My palms began to sweat as I spun up my pathetic orbless reflex enhancement, desperately trying to figure out what I could say to soothe this no-doubt bloodthirsty killer's temper.


"I'm no Britannian! In fact, I'm here to join the Resistance. I want to fight the Britannians and free Glorious Japan from her oppressor!"


Dammit, dammit, dammit! Too much, way too much! I cursed the childish impulses of my untempered body and my treacherously loose lips. I'd just wanted to say the first sentence, denying my Britannian heritage – a complete truth! I was an Eleven, it said so on the school record! The next two sentences just came out all on their own! Now he'll think that I'm some sort of spy or infiltrator! He'll kill me for sure now!


Whatever it was that Naoto had expected to hear, it hadn't been an emotional outburst nor a passionate declaration of Japanese stubbornness. Fortunately, his hand had stopped moving towards his concealed weapon, so I decided to count it as a minor victory, another step on the long road to not getting shot in a mildewed studio apartment.


"Calm down, Naoto!" Ohgi finally decided to insert himself into our little standoff, a bit late but definitely welcome. "This is Tanya. She's a good girl, and her mother... Passed away earlier today." His volume decreased, and he started speaking very gently, as if he was afraid of startling one or the other of us. Quite a wise move on his part, I decided. Clearly, Ohgi was the good cop and probably the one who helped maintain group cohesion in their organization. "That bastard Kentaro was renting a room to her and her mother, and he kicked her out as soon as I broke the news. What was I going to do, leave her alone in the middle of Shinjuku?"


As Ohgi continued to speak sweet reason, I slowly climbed to my feet, careful to keep my eyes on Naoto's hands but slightly downcast as well. The last thing I wanted to do is make Naoto think I was questioning his dominance – that could lead to a need to reassert his authority over the situation, and I didn't feel like being an object lesson. Once I was on my feet, I'd be at least somewhat taller, which according to signal theory would make it easier for him to take me seriously, as well as making it far easier for me to dodge if he did lose his temper.


Fortunately, it seemed like those calculations wouldn't be necessary after all. Naoto exhaled, and thankfully let his hands fall to his side in a relaxed slump, before turning away from me and giving Ohgi a look of mild annoyance. "Always the teacher, eh, Mister Kaname?"


The terrorist leader turned back to me, and plastered the wide, fake smile that those unaccustomed to children always used when speaking to me, and squatted down until his face was roughly at my level. "Hey there, Tanya. Sorry about all that – I was just surprised we had company." He thankfully dropped the plastic smile in favor of a more sincere expression of condolence. "I'm sorry to hear about your mom. I'm sure she's in a better place now, though."


I very much doubted that, as nothing I'd ever heard from Being X indicated any kind of sympathy for the deceased, no matter how miserable their circumstances or passing had been. I also doubted the sincerity of this stranger's sympathy – while the pity in his eyes looked authentic, I couldn't help but suspect this to be another mask. No man waging war on a global empire would be so expressive with a potential threat. As an experienced commander myself, I knew how important it was to maintain a degree of emotional isolation in front of the men I lead. I'd never have earned their respect if I'd poured out my sincere emotions at the drop of a hat, as this Naoto seemingly was in front of Ohgi.


I wondered again about the nature of their relationship. Perhaps, if I had been more forthright about my emotions with Visha, we could have been close too, someday? It didn't matter now, and it hadn't mattered then either – she had been a professional, and I doubt she would have appreciated any sort of inappropriate loose chatter from me. I'd dealt with many overly friendly bosses back in my first life, and I'd held them all in contempt. It was impossible to respect any of them, given how they seemed dependent on their subordinates for emotional fulfillment.


But... What happened, after the shelling? Did the rest of the 203rd get hit in their tents too? I hoped Visha hadn't, at the very least. She was a professional, and would have done an admirable job keeping the men together, I'm sure. Ultimately, I was just a cog in the machine, just another component, but I'd done my job and trained an adequate successor before I'd... left. But what if she didn't hear the shells either? What if she was just as helpless in the face of the artillery as I was? The pain and heat of the thought tore through my chest like a bayonet, and for the first time in the eleven years of this life I found myself imaging the aftermath of that attack beyond my own death. While I of course only saw Visha as a commendable subordinate with a divine gift for coffee, the mental image of her bleeding in the mud made my eyes prick uncomfortably and my stomach twist. The other men and women of the 203rd too, who I'd carefully trained and raised up to be the lords of the sky... what had happened to them? Had any of them survived the war? Gone home to families, loved ones, comfortable peacetime careers? ...Did any of them remember me?


The damned prickling in my eyes was getting worse, and my eyesight was swimming. I tried to scrub at my face with my sleeve for a moment, cursing this sudden and unwarranted onslaught of emotions and the attendant involuntary physical reactions. Annoyingly, the more I rubbed at my face and eyes, the more the tears flowed. Why was this happening to me?! I hadn't been this upset by my mother's early rejections, by the Conquest, by being forced to move into the ghetto and drop out of school... This certainly wasn't caused by my mother's death, she'd been practically a stranger to me... So why did I feel so hot, and hollow, and prickly inside?


I jerked with shock and panic as a pair of strong arms wrapped around me and pulled me into a worn leather jacket. For a moment I struggled and fought, certain that Naoto had taken advantage of my ill-timed emotional display to break my neck and save himself a bullet, before realizing that the arms were wrapped around my shoulders and not my neck. I stayed tense and alert, still not entirely certain what was happening or why. Naoto was... hugging me? Why? He was about to kill me, right? And even if he wasn't, he was a rebel leader, not one of the nuns from that long ago orphanage! Although... even they'd barely touched me more than they'd had to, back in my previous life... There were just too many children for them to spare much time, and I'd been happy about that, since I still had the mind of an adult...

"It's okay to cry, Tanya. It's okay. Just let it out." Naoto's voice was pleasantly deep, and I could feel the rumble of his chest against my forehead. I tried to reply, to express a polite thankfulness for his care but to also make it clear that I just needed a moment, but it all just came out as a thick sobbing burble, completely incoherent. I felt so ashamed of my complete inability to communicate, on top of my inability to control these sudden emotions.

Wait, that's it! Puberty could start at age eleven, right? I know that teenagers are more frequently associated with moodiness and overly emotional outbursts, but perhaps I was simply an early bloomer this time? That would explain these unwarranted reactions, as well as the soppy, maudlin turn my thoughts had taken when I remembered Visha. Just the early signs of puberty, nothing to worry about.


Now that I had figured out what the cause of this outburst must be, it was simplicity itself to calm myself back down from the near hysterics I'd indulged in. A few deep, calming, cleansing breathes, and I managed to get my trembling body back under control, although my cheeks were still unpleasantly damp. Scraping together the tattered shreds of my dignity, I managed to force out a muttered "Thank you. I'm fine now."


Gingerly, Naoto let go of me and stepped back. He'd apparently either forgotten about the incriminating sack of grenades or no longer cared, since he didn't resume his position between me and them, instead moving to stand beside Ohgi. For some reason, Ohgi looked far more comfortable than he had before I'd started crying uncontrollably – had I misjudged him, and he was one of those men who relished suffering in others? If that was the case, it was quite concerning, as I doubted any sadist would take particular care to preserve his human resources.


The way forward became clear to me. Naoto was clearly a trigger-happy and manipulative rising warlord, and Ohgi was a closeted sadist who'd let his mask slip. I was locked in a room with battle maniacs. In some strange way, I felt like I'd finally come home.


"I said I'm here to join you! I want to fight Britannia, and avenge our home!" My delivery was crippled by a damnable waver in my voice, but bolstered by the very real anger channeled through my words. Anger at myself for my weakness, anger at Ohgi for putting me in a position where I once more had to volunteer to fight to save my skin, anger at the Britannians for ruining my attempt to return to the safe and cushy life... Anger at Being X for letting me die alone and maimed, anger at Visha for not being there when I was scared and alone and hurt... Deep breaths. Don't lose your cool in front of the battle maniacs.


"Umm... Tanya, look..." Naoto began, before Ohgi burst in. "Absolutely not! You're a child – we're not going to put you in danger like that!" Now it was Ohgi's turn to pause and take a breath, before continuing on in a calmer tone. "Besides, you don't' know anything about fighting, do you, Tanya? You were just a kid when the Brits invaded." He smiled sympathetically at me. "I know you're upset about your mother, but I can't just let you throw your life away."


Inside, I started to panic. Ohgi had shown his true colors earlier, so that smile of his must be at my expense somehow... What was I missing...? I've already seen the grenades and heard them planning! I realized. They can't let me leave unless they're confident in my loyalty. This is a test! They were trying to see if I'd back down in the face of opposition, or if I really was just some sort of emotional child! Truly, this cell must be hardened professionals, to have such an insidious testing mechanism for prospective recruits! That must be why they'd survived the five years since the invasion. I idly wondered how many failed infiltrators had been unmasked by their tests, and how many sincere recruits who didn't have my appreciation for interview strategy had ended up garroted in an alley somewhere.


"This isn't about my mother." I began. Happily, my voice had finally firmed up, and I began to carefully inject the cadence I remembered from giving speeches to my men before training or battle. Not too much emotion, but enough bombast to tug on the heartstrings, that Achilles' heel seemingly shared by all but the most emotionally dead.


"This is not about my mother. This is about all of us. What opportunities are there for us Japanese? None! There is nothing for us, here in our own homeland! Everything the Britannians could take, they've stolen already. Every petty cruelty they could dream up, they've inflicted on us. They've razed our shrines, executed our leaders, even stolen our identity as Japanese! And what about our dreams, our hopes?! They're crushed! We're forced to sweep streets and accept their beatings and thank them for their fists!"


I realized I'd lost control of my mouth again, but I just couldn't stop the torrent of vitriol rushing out. Memories of years of carrying rubble, of finding smashed bodies between the cement slabs, of seeing bullet holes in stained walls... Memories of hunger, of going to bed so empty I felt like my belly would implode, of watching strong men and women give up and crawl into bottles...


"No more! I can't stand by and watch helplessly anymore! I can't see any more mass executions, any more kidnappings, any more death! Not without doing something! Anything!" I turned toward Ohgi, whose mouth hung ajar like he was trying to prevent his eardrums from rupturing from the concussive waves of explosions. "You say I'm too young to fight, just a child? I'm not too young to be put up against a wall and shot! I'm not too young to be beaten to death in the street for some young thug's fun and games! I'm not too young to die in the damned crossfire between you rebels and the Britannians! So why am I too young to actually do something about it, instead of simply waiting to be victimized once more?!"


I turned back to Naoto. "If you don't think I can fight, teach me! Or let me be a messenger, a lookout, a distraction! Just let me help you help our people!" As I spouted belligerent oratory, I tried to think of a clincher, some personal hook to land my pitch... Ah, there we go. "Naoto, sir, you and I are alike in one way – we're both half-breeds, Britannian bastards! But our last names say that we've made our choice, don't they? Sir, Hajime isn't a Britannian name! You and I both know we might not look as Japanese as Ohgi, but you're willing to put your life on the line for Japan! Let me prove myself Japanese too!"


Abruptly, I ran out of steam. As I stood there, gasping for breath in that small apartment, looking at the terrorist across from me, I hoped he'd bought my pitch. I'd done my best to follow the same strategy that had endeared me to my superiors back in the Empire – rephrasing the propaganda and spouting it back with as much vigor as I could muster. The closer was a product of my corporate experience – whenever you're trying to sell an idea, you must localize it to the buyer's interests. Hopefully, two lives worth of experience of social manipulation would preserve my third life.


I was gratified to see that Naoto looked quite thoughtful, and was presumably mulling over my jingoistic pitch, though Ohgi was giving me a strange look, like he hadn't seen me before. Hopefully this meant I'd been moved off his potential victim's list and into the category of helpful allies instead.


Naoto sighed, and my eyes snapped back to him. "You're younger than my little sister, Tanya. I can't let you join us. I'm not going to risk your life." My stomach dropped , and it felt like I was standing on the edge of a precipice once more. If I wasn't useful to him... "But, you've made your point, and you're really passionate. And you're quite the talker, too!" He flashed a casual wink and a smile at this. "Tell you what, how would you like to help us out in other ways? We could always use a lookout, and I bet you'd make a good recruiter too!" He chuckled, and leaned back against the table, clearly pleased with himself. "After all, if a little girl can be this fiery, how can any true son of Japan avoid the blaze, huh?"


---------


And so, just like that, I joined the Kozuki Cell of the Japanese Resistance. Apparently, joining a band of bloodthirsty terrorists is easier than I'd expected. Naoto and Ohgi hadn't made me kill a bound captive as an initiation, like in action films I could dimly remember from my first life, but they also hadn't given me any sort of weapon I could potentially turn against them either. Probably a wise move on their part, but it made me acutely aware that I was still a probationary member at best, cannon fodder at worst. Hopefully they weren't going to demand that I bomb a checkpoint or try to embrace a Britannian soldier with a grenade in my hand or something.


Fortunately, the remainder of the day and the night passed without any further life or death situations. Ohgi and Naoto prepared a simple dinner for us on their ancient electric hotplate, which presented me with yet another test of will. The day's events had kept me from work, so I hadn't eaten all day, and even the simple scents of boiling onions and carrots were enough to make my mouth water. Somehow, they'd even managed to get their hands on real chicken's eggs – an extremely rare ingredient in Shinjuku. I assumed they must have some sort of black market connections, being resistance fighters and the like, but Ohgi revealed they'd actually been part of the take from a burglary of a noble's apartment in the Concession. On one hand, their willingness to take valuable resources where they could appealed to my rational sensibilities, on the other hand prioritizing something as fragile and simple as eggs while robbing a house made me start to question their priorities and planning. Ultimately, I decided this must be a simple and easy way to keep morale up, which was a worthwhile objective.


My desire to simply enjoy the protein rich soup had nothing to do with my willingness to see the silver lining of their operations, before you ask. My growling belly had no input into my sober analysis of the machinations of my new supposed comrades.


The next day, Naoto and Ohgi took me to the cell's "headquarters", a grandiose way to describe the leaky sub-basement of an apartment building that looked decayed even by Shinjuku standards. The cement walls and floor were illuminated by a handful of lamps with bare bulbs, powered by an ancient gas powered generator. The remainder of the basement not occupied by the generator was broadly divided into two small sections and a third larger section. The first section was dominated by a series of mostly bare shelving units, and appeared to pass as the group's armory. Naoto swung the old gym bag containing the grenades up and onto one of the shelves with an alarming degree of nonchalance, and I winced as the sack landed on the metal shelf with a muffled clank. Clearly, nobody had given them instructions in the safe handling of explosive ordinance. The second section appeared to be a primitive living area, with a pair of disreputable bunks that looked like they'd seen service on the Rhine Front a century earlier, as well as two badly abused couches and a coffee table. The third section appeared to have been set up as a primitive firing range, with crude paper targets nailed to the east wall and a table with an open ammunition box near the west.


The entire setup was amateurish, to put it politely, and the two men displayed a worrying lack of concern about the secrecy of their allegedly hidden base. The echoing chug of the mechanical beast of a generator was clearly audible from the lobby of the decrepit building as we'd entered, and I marveled that neither seemed to care about any possibility of detection from that clamor alone. Mix in the sounds of pistol fire echoing in a room mostly comprised of bare concrete, and I was shocked that the Britannians hadn't torn this place down around our ears yet.


Perhaps this is all a trap? I wondered, casting a sceptical eye over the handful of rifles and pistols, pair of RPGs, and disorganized boxes of ammunition randomly stashed on the shelving units. Maybe the Britannians already know about this place, and are just keeping tabs on who comes and goes? It's what I'd do, if I were trying to weed out committed insurgents from an uncooperative population. That said, it wasn't really the Britannians style – in my experience, their arrogance prevented them from ever believing that any of the Elevens would actually strike them, until it happened. At which point they'd take their anger out on whatever unlucky bastards happened to be nearby. A wall, a bullet, and not even a pretense of military justice, and they'd call the situation pacified.


What sloppy work on the Britannians part. Even the Republic Army wasn't so... half-hearted when it came to carrying out their duties. Which, now that I considered it, standing in this basement, begged an interesting question: How did the Britannians conquer a third of the world if their men are so disinterested in working, and their officers too unimaginative or incompetent to actively pursue counter-guerrilla operations? I could only conclude that the Britannians here in Area 11 were garrison troops, possibly even reservists, and thus the bottom of the barrel. Presumably any elite units stationed here were guarding the Sakuradite mines instead of patrolling the Number ghettos.


Naoto and Ohgi sat on one of the couches, and called for me to join them, distracting me from following that train of thought any further. Apparently, the other three members of their cell – Nagata, Inoue, and Tamaki – were on their way and would join us shortly. As we waited, Naoto filled me in with some more information about the cell. Apparently, contrary to my previous assumptions, they'd only been operating for a few months, and weren't part of the older, more established networks that had sprung up in the wake of the Conquest. Indeed, Naoto's cell wasn't affiliated with any network at all, and were instead a merry band of independent freedom fighters, in his own words.


Apparently, he and Ohgi had been friends since high school, while the other three members of their group had been friends from university or the jobs they'd had before the Conquest. Naoto had established the cell with Ohgi after returning "from a trip abroad", and they'd subsequently reached out to their old network of friends. Apparently, this time overseas had also been when Naoto had gotten the seed money together to buy the first batch of Britannian military surplus small arms and ammunition through his father's connections back in Britannia proper, where apparently such things were possible. Which led to the further revelation that Naoto was not, in fact, the half-breed son of a lowly soldier, or a sailor like myself. No, Naoto was in fact the half-breed bastard son of a noble, a Lord Stadtfeld. Curiously, unlike most such fathers, Stadtfeld apparently cared for his son, as well as his Japanese mistress, and was sympathetic enough to their plight to help sponsor his son's insurgency. Or at least, that was Naoto's story.


I immediately smelled a rat. It was one thing for a noble to be fond of a bastard son, particularly if the bastard in question was skilled and not interested in usurping the place of his legal offspring. Such noble bastards had frequently found commissions in the Imperial Army in my previous life, and plenty of them even earned those epaulets honestly, admittedly with their father's connections greasing the wheels. Caring for a bastard to the point of sponsoring his armed treason against the state, however...


That was simply unbelievable. So why would a Britannian noble pay to arm and equip a Japanese terrorist cell, and why would he use his own deniable asset, a bastard son, as the head of such an organization? My eyes widened as I considered the possibilities.


Perhaps any Britannian targets we attack would simply be his business rivals? I mused, but it didn't seem like the kind of objective that would involve setting up a whole guerrilla operation. Simply putting any of the violent gangs in Shinjuku on his payroll would presumably have the same benefits with less risk. Maybe he wants the credit for exposing and arresting all of us, to expand his own political base in the Concession administration? Setting up an enemy for you to knock down when convenient would be a very appealing strategy for a savvy and amoral operator, like any Britannian noble who'd survived this long must be. Perhaps he wants to carve out his own shadow kingdom, using the combat strength of the Japanese Resistance to become the defacto ruler of Area 11? It would be an ambitious plan, one with great risk but potentially incredible reward. It would also conform to the Social Darwinism I'd been instructed on back in the Shinjuku School for Elevens, which might even mean that the nobility and monarchy would consider such actions moral and legitimate.


This opened up a whole new vista of opportunities, as well as introduced a very dangerous rival into the equation. If this mysterious 'Lord Stadtfeld' really was trying to set himself up as the shadow ruler of Area 11, using his hafu son as a cipher, I could be in very real danger if he decided that I was a risk. There was no running from such a man, not with the resources I had on hand. That said, if I was correct about his plan... Perhaps this could be a route to that legendary, ever evasive, rear echelon position? If I could impress the son, and through the son the new shadow governor, the sky was the limit!


But how do I impress Kozuki Naoto...?


I mulled the thought over as the other three members of the guerrilla cell shuffled in, closing the sub-basement door as they entered. Or, more accurately, two members shuffled in, while the third strutted through the entrance loud and proud, self-confident bravado practically dripping as he swaggered into the hideout. I examined the trio of newcomers as they made their way over to the couches. Two males and one female, with the shorter of the two men being the loudmouth leading the way. Already his boisterous personality was on full display, greeting the two leaders of the cell with a loud "Yo!" and an overly dramatic and sloppy salute. As he touched his brow, his jacket pulled upward, revealing the handgrip of an automatic casually crammed into the waistband of his trousers, ideally placed to put a bullet in his thigh if the safety was off.

The other two were both older and quieter then their colleague. Both had long dark hair, in marked contrast to the loudmouth's short dyed red hair, and both were expressionless. And unlike their comrade, both had clearly noticed my presence, and were clearly uneasy with it. I'd have to win them over too – in such a close knit organization, being on the good side of every member was key to maintaining a strong espirit de corps. If they thought I wasn't willing to be a team player, they'd undercut any effort I made to get into Naoto's good books, derailing my only current path to a prosperous life.

Of course, all that was predicated on not being shot this moment by the fool waving a gun in my face.


"You Britannian scum! How did you get into our secret base?!" The fool blathered on, ranting incoherently about the generally untrustworthy nature of Britannians in general and me in particular. While irritating, I wasn't paying attention to any of it, keeping all my attention on the barrel of the gun wobbling uncertainly in my face. Somehow, I doubted agreeing with him about the perfidious nature of Albion would get him to reconsider his snap judgment. When he'd turned from Naoto and Ohgi to throw himself down onto the second couch, he'd finally noticed me, and had immediately gone for his gun.


I'd immediately spun up my pitiful reflex and strength enhancements, but paused as the pistol trained on my face. I was fairly confident in my ability to slap his hand aside and launch myself at him before he could take the shot, but I wasn't positive – I'd never fought before in this body, and I didn't know if my rusty old skills and muscle memory would make up for my physical inexperience. Furthermore, this man was supposedly a friendly, a fellow member of this cell. I couldn't hurt him too badly, otherwise I would never be accepted by the rest of the old guard. So, I had waited for our leader to take him in hand, figuring that respect for the chain of command was integral to the function of any military organization.


But, instead of immediately slapping this fool – Tamaki, apparently – down, Naoto instead tried sweet reason. "Put the gun down, Tamaki! I invited her here!", supported by Ohgi's similar appeals to his better nature "She's Japanese, and a child! Are you going to shoot a kid, Tamaki? What the hell is wrong with you?!" Unfortunately, neither of these attempts to throw water on the situation made much of an impact, and I felt my back breaking out into a cold sweat. This man was a fool, and like many fools, stubborn. Once such a man was committed to a course of action, it was difficult to dissuade them, especially if they felt like they'd lose face as a result.


Unless... Is this another test?


Perhaps all wasn't what it seemed here. If I was a leader of a band of battle maniacs without a firm hierarchy and supporting infrastructure, perhaps I'd want a cipher to distance myself from any punishments or skullduggery. Perhaps Naoto was concerned that testing my combat skills personally would build animosity between us, and had delegated to his designated 'Bad Cop'? I'd thought that Ohgi, with his evident sadistic tendencies and background as an authority figure, would be the natural fit for such a location, but perhaps he didn't want his second in command and chosen successor to be tarred by the brush of personal animus either?


If that was the case, then I wasn't really in any danger here. Naoto just wanted to see what I could do, and if I actually had the spine to stand up for myself when push came to shove. The interview isn't over yet! I realized, and felt myself calm. I was on familiar ground here. I'd passed the first round interview by proving my sincere interest in the cause of Japanese liberation; now, I had to pass the second round interview to prove my utility to the organization to cement my hiring!


As soon as Tamaki looked away for a moment, turning to yell something back at the two rebels who'd entered the room with him, I moved. My left hand swept up, slamming into the underside of the pistol's barrel and forcing it up and out, rotating my hand towards me as the gun moved away from my head and jamming my thumb into the trigger guard, between the trigger and the interior of the guard. I rose to my feet in a burst, following my left arm up and propelling myself forwards, head first. Tamaki turned back towards me, away from his comrades and straight into the crown of my head. My teeth clacked together as I ran into his face, and I felt something soft give way under the impact. He began to stagger backwards, making some kind of burbling noise, but I ignored that in favor of grabbing the bicep of his gun-arm and bobbing downwards, under his right arm, and rising back up as I pivoted on my heel, coming up behind him.


As I moved, I maintained my grip on his upper arm and on the gun, pinning his right hand in place between the firearm and my own left hand. As a consequence, as I dipped below him, his arm was forced to rotate forward from the shoulder and down, following my own trajectory, and as I turned left on my heel the arm was forced to continue forwards and down, rotating 180 degrees in its socket. At the same time, I pulled the gun hand down and to the left as I turned, ending with the pistol behind his upper back, with the barrel crudely shoved into the meat below his left shoulder blade. I was fairly certain his right shoulder was dislocated as a result of the downwards rotation, but I reasoned that it was a decidedly non-fatal injury, and not even an uncommon injury in friendly spars and training sessions.


I considered letting go of him at this point, as I felt I'd adequately demonstrated my willingness to stand up to potential threats, but then I reconsidered the likely nature of this test. We were a rebel group, either fighting a war for the soul of our nation against a foreign invader, or fighting to install our own secret leader into a position of dominance over Area 11. Either way, we couldn't afford to be squeamish, or really take prisoners. Any threats to our operations or objectives would have to be disposed of swiftly and ruthlessly, and as far as I knew, as irregular combatants, we were under no obligation to conform to the requirements of this universe's equivalent of the Laws of War. If I let him go now, while he was still on his feet and in possession of a firearm, I'd be demonstrating an unforgivable degree of squeamishness, as well as an unwillingness to clean up my own mess. If I were hiring for a campaign of insurgency, that would be an automatic disqualification! So, I decided to take my time and be thorough about this.


I slammed a strength-enhanced foot into the crook of his right knee, forcing the joint to fold and driving him down to a half-kneeling position. As his ear came down to roughly the level of my mouth, I leaned in and growled "Let go of the gun." in my best 'Officer's Voice'. Regrettably, I wasn't able to get the same coarse rumble I'd managed from my previous body, as these vocal cords hadn't been roughened by years of yelling orders over the sounds of wind, gunfire, and explosions, so I sounded closer to an irate schoolgirl than a hardened revolutionary. Apparently, this childish voice wasn't intimidating enough to show that I meant business, as Tamaki just blubbered something about "You crazy Brit bitch!" instead of releasing his grip on the pistol.


So, I let go of my right-hand hold on his bicep, reasoning that the gun was still under the control of my left hand, and used my now free hand to jab at the soft spot below his wrist, between his ulna and radius. This involuntarily forced his fingers to flex, and then relax as I lifted my thumb from the peripheral nerve. As his fingers briefly relaxed, I seized the pistol in both hands, tore it out of his fingers, and took three quick steps back and away in case he tried to lash back with his left arm to contest my possession of the firearm. As I stepped back, I lifted the gun in a two arm hold and pointed it at the base of Tamaki's skull, where the spinal cord and brain stem meet. No more than five or ten seconds had gone by from my first movement to now.


I hoped this had proven my utility to Naoto and his little band of psychopaths once and for all. I was getting tired of all these tests, and wanted to move on to something a bit more productive.

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 3: A Fortuitous Meeting

(AN: Thank you to Siatru for beta reading this chapter, and massively improving the quality as a result. And thank you for all of the comments, and for reading.)

Fortunately, my introductions to the other two members of the organization were significantly calmer. Nagata and Inoue were both relatively quiet, and seemed haunted by some sort of horrible past experience, judging by the fear in their eyes and how they twitched slightly whenever I moved. I could sympathize – I too had been a peaceful person driven by circumstances far beyond my control to take up a gun and fight. If this pair of obviously sane people had been forced by their experiences under the Britannian occupation to sign their own death warrants by joining the Resistance, their suffering must have been truly unbearable.


As I did my best to soothe them with light conversation about their time with the Kozuki cell of the Resistance, Ohgi attempted to get a cursing Tamaki's shoulder back into its socket. Clearly, the sadist was taking his time with it, drawing a relatively simple if painful procedure out to maximize the suffering of his patient. I was tempted to interfere and simply pop the joint back into position myself, as I'd done many a time on the front or during training, but I didn't want my well-meaning actions to come off as an attempt to undermine the leadership. Plus, I knew how proud and stubborn diehards like Tamaki could be, and I didn't want to appear condescending towards him. It had been very kind of him to help Naoto in his interview process, and I didn't want to compound the injury with inadvertent insult.


In fact, now that I thought about it, I hadn't thanked Tamaki for being my sparring partner yet. That was rude on my part, and might unnecessarily complicate our future relationship. As I chattered on, trying to encourage Nagata and Inoue to open up with me and share more about themselves, I mentally cast around for a good way to thank him. It was too late to openly thank him, as the conversation had clearly moved on, but maybe I could do some small task or errand for him?


I looked down at the pistol I was still holding. I'd checked the safety as soon as the match was over, planning to re-engage it, but I discovered that Tamaki had never actually switched it off before putting it in my face. Of course he hadn't, it was all just a test, but I was glad to see I'd never been in any real danger. I intended to return it to Tamaki, of course, as soon as Ohgi stopped toying with him, but perhaps I could show my appreciation by doing a bit of maintenance and cleaning? In my experience, even the most dutiful of soldiers disliked the constant cleaning and maintenance that are part and parcel with the military life, and exchanging small favors like boot polishing were common forms of social currency in the barracks.


So, as the conversation with Nagata and Inoue gradually petered out, I made my way over to the armory once more, and began searching for a gun cleaning kit and the requisite supplies. To my shock, I didn't find anything of the sort – no brushes, or cleaning rods, or wiping clothes, not even a single bottle of lubricant was available anywhere on the shelves. I eyed the higher shelves, wondering if perhaps the cleaning supplies were stored beyond my reach or sight, but that seemed unlikely. With a growing sense of consternation, I returned to the lounge area and knelt by the coffee table, and began disassembling the pistol.


I noticed Naoto and Ohgi were off in a corner of the target range, apparently arguing about something, but I couldn't make out what they were saying. Apart from the vague hissing sounds of suppressed yet still clearly angry tones, the basement was generally calm. Tamaki, Inoue, and Nagata were seated on the couches around the coffee table, but none of them were saying anything. Tamaki, for his part, appeared to be sulking. I wondered if he was upset by Ohgi's complete lack of professionalism when it came to first aid, or if Naoto had put a bee in his ear about being too easy on me. Looking back, it should have been impossible for a young girl to disarm an armed guerrilla like that, even with magically enhanced reflexes and strength. I could only assume that he hadn't wanted to push too hard on such a young recruit, or perhaps Naoto had told him about my unfortunate emotional outburst back in the apartment and he considered me mentally fragile. Either way, he didn't look happy, and possibly Naoto and Ohgi were equally unhappy as well, considering their ongoing dispute, which had evolved to arm-waving gesticulations on the latter's part.


I'd screwed up somehow, that was clear, but I couldn't see how. I had thought my actions would impress Ohgi with their ruthlessness and decisiveness, and I'd hoped to prove to Naoto that I was a valuable asset to him and his father in their quest to gain power in Japan at the expense of the Britannian establishment. Instead, I'd managed to introduce disharmony into the group, potentially upsetting the working relationships between the various members of the cell and reducing the operational efficiency of the organization as a whole. Sighing with irritation, I reminisced fondly on the smooth machinery of Imperial bureaucracy, and how such personal drama was replaced by the impersonal wheels of cold logic and resource allocation.


Turning my thoughts back to the present, I began to examine the pistol in my hands. To my surprise, it was nothing like any pistol I'd ever handled before. Instead of the familiar breech mechanism I was familiar with, there was a round cylinder attached to the butt of the gun, behind the slide. Ejecting the magazine proved similarly surprising – instead of the cylinders of chemical propellant capped with the rounded projectile cones I'd expected, the bullets appeared to have been reduced to only the projectiles themselves. Upon closer examination, I noticed that the bullet container in the magazine didn't extend all the way to the base. The bottom third of the magazine appeared to be a large rectangular block of unpainted steel. I carefully emptied out the shells, and peered into the empty compartment. I couldn't clearly see what was at the base, but it appeared to be some form of electrical assembly. Perhaps the block is some form of battery? Wait... are all the firearms in this world electrical? The idea seemed absurd, but it was the only thing that made sense. Perhaps this is a result of the existence of Sakuradite? An abundant natural superconductor could make all kinds of peculiar technologies feasible... Honestly, I should have realized that point long ago, if only because of how quiet the Knightmare Frames had been during the Conquest. Admittedly, I'd had other things on my mind, but compared to the ear shattering sounds of heavy construction machinery I'd heard in my first life, they'd been remarkably low-key. Until they started shooting, at least.


I couldn't clean it as I'd originally planned to do, not without the requisite supplies and a greater degree of familiarity with this universe's weapons systems, but I could at least refresh my familiarity with the tools of the trade, and perhaps assess the quality of equipment I'd be working with.


I looked up at Tamaki, who was still sitting in sullen silence across the table. I could sympathize, I supposed. I'd had a hard time losing, even if it was for training missions, and nobody liked being taken advantage of. While I supposed it was below Naoto's dignity as the leader to be manhandled, the lack of positive reinforcement and incentivization for Tamaki after our test was a disappointing misstep as a leader. After all, having your shoulder forcibly dislocated was never a pleasant experience, and nor was suffering at the hands of a sadist allegedly providing first aid.


Well, if Naoto wasn't willing to smooth over this potential source of intra-organizational discord, I'd have to step up instead. I quickly reloaded the magazine and reinserted it, before seeking out Tamaki's gaze and making deliberate eye contact. Smiling, I slid the pistol back across the table towards him and stood up and jerked my head towards the firing range, where the dispute between Naoto and Ohgi had apparently subsided. "Want to show me what you can do with that thing?"


---------


Tamaki was gracious enough to accept the gesture of reconciliation, and was soon introducing me to the finer points of using motorized guns. Apparently, modern small arms were generally motor-powered coilguns, with chemical propellant guns phased out to the realm of antiquarians and hobbyists. I had been partially correct about the design being the result of Sakuradite, but not correct in regards to the battery using the stuff. No, apparently a small amount of Sakuradite lined the barrel of the gun, electromagnetically accelerating the bullet as it passed, while a more mundane battery powered the motor that provided the initial kinetic energy for the round.


These motor guns were both significantly easier to use as a result of the sharp reduction of the kickback force, and both much lighter and quieter than the firearms of my previous life. The sound they made was louder than an airsoft compressed air rifle, but still significantly quieter than my memories led me to expect. The basement firing range made much more sense in the light of this new discovery, and now didn't seem like quite the blatant security hazard it had before.


Despite the lightness of the firearm, Tamaki still wasn't going to be able to shoot today. Dislocated joints were no joke, and my overeager take down had more or less rendered him unable to fight for the next three months, unless he was willing to risk permanent injury. Still, he seemed pleased by my clear interest in listening to him explain how the gun worked, and he carefully walked me through how to disassemble and reassemble his pistol. Another fortunate byproduct of the alternative technology was that firearms required far less cleaning. No chemical propellant meant no risk of unsafe accumulations of unburnt propellant in the mechanisms, which explained the complete lack of gun cleaning supplies in the armory. Apparently, it was important to regularly check that the rail was still completely straight and fully intact, lest a magnetically accelerated bullet rip itself out through the side of the barrel. Plus, the motor, while designed to be as rugged as possible, was just as vulnerable as any mechanism with small moving parts, and could easily be damaged by rough treatment.


I idly wondered if there were any communists in this world to design a coilgun Kalashnikov. As far as I could tell, the radical departures from world history as I'd previously known it had stifled much of the development of modern political and social theory. While I wasn't particularly familiar with the specific ideology of the Europeans, the Chinese appeared to retain an emperor complete with a court of eunuch ministers, while Britannia obviously ran on the same principles of absolute monarchy and the divine right of kings propounded by the Sun King in Versailles. No socialism meant no communism, which in my mind was a strong point in this world's favor, but that also meant no rugged assault rifles that could survive even the roughest treatment a peasant could met out.

After our little bonding session over the finer points of firearm maintenance, I felt like I'd established a good working relationship with Tamaki. Admittedly, our rapport was somewhat stifled by his clear discomfort in working with me. Initially, I figured this was due to his clear hatred for Britannians, but he seemed to follow Naoto without any complaint, so it must be my age that was putting him off. Hopefully I could find some way to overcome his unwillingness to work with an apparent child, but there was no sense rushing it.


---------


A week later, and I was back in the basement. After Tamaki had introduced me to the details of motorized guns, I'd begun a strategic campaign of coercion using available assets to secure a weapon of my own.


More specifically, I had turned up every "cute little girl" trick I'd been taught by the Imperial Bureau for Propaganda and wheedled a pistol out of Ohgi. I had considered focusing on Naoto, but I remembered that he had a younger sister and thus was likely more inured to the impact of strategically deployed cuteness than the single child Ohgi. So, for days, I'd dimple-smiled for all I was worth and "teehee"d every other sentence. I wasn't sure if my charm offensive had worked or the simple irritation had become unbearable, but by the fourth day Ohgi had surrendered a pistol carrying case into my custody. I had, of course, immediately wanted to familiarize myself with it, but I bided my time until Naoto announced we'd be meeting back up with rest of the cell again. I didn't want to burn too much social capital by being any more pushy than I had to be, so I focused my energies on my old daily routine once more, sniffing out random day jobs that paid in food to reduce my impact on my new roommates' resources.


But now, I finally had the opportunity to get some range time with my pistol. I remembered the long hours from my past life on Imperial ranges of all types, from the standard arrangement of a line of targets at the same distance in Basic, to the variable location targets from the Advanced Marksmanship course, to the pistol range from OCS, to the miles wide training areas from my mage training. In some small way, standing on the line facing a row of targets felt like a homecoming. Never thought I'd be so nostalgic for a simple training exercise. I mused as I vaguely listened to Naoto lecture about range safety.


After an interminable lecture, where Naoto seemed to be really going into detail about the importance of treating every gun as if were loaded at all times, it was finally time to see what I could do. It had been years since I'd shot a gun, in a totally different body, so I was fairly anxious about my skill level. It would be embarrassing if my skill level was at the level of a true eleven year old girl, but I hoped at least some small part of my skill had carried over from my past life. Fortunately, since the motorized guns were so much quieter than the firearms of the 1900's, I didn't need to bother with clunky hearing protection, and so I simply assumed the old familiar shooter's posture and announced "Range is hot!" in my annoyingly piping and high-pitched voice.


I looked down the notches on top of the barrel, and slid the safety switch off with my thumb. I centered my sight on the center of the target in front of me, braced myself, and carefully squeezed down on the trigger. My first shot of my new life crack'ed out across the range, and the flutter of the paper target and puff of concrete dust heralded its impact. The gun had gratifyingly barely jerked in my hands, and I hadn't even required the strength enhancement to control it. I waited a moment for the air to clear, and refocused my sight down the notches at the target. To my slight annoyance, the hole was below the center of the target – I'd over-corrected for the anticipated kickback, and undershot the center ring. I must break myself of that habit soon.


To my pleasure, the next round punched straight through the center of the target, as did the subsequent eleven bullets of the thirteen bullet magazine. It's like riding a bike, I mused to myself as I re-engaged the safety and declared "Range is clear!" you never really forget the basics.


My detached calm was suddenly disrupted by a burst of cheering and applause from the sidelines of the range. I blinked and looked over to the couches, where my comrades were all sitting or leaning and watching me. I'd momentarily forgotten about them as I'd focused all my attention on the gun in my hands and the target on the wall, but they'd all been keenly watching as I tested out my new gun. I was gratified by the bonhomie they were displaying, but I didn't take it too seriously. Shooting a stationary target from twenty feet away was no great feat, and they were just being supportive of a new recruit coming to terms with the tools of the trade. Still, I smiled back at them in thanks and bit my tongue as Tamaki began bragging about "teaching her everything she knows". No need to take his joking too seriously, I decided as I walked down-range to retrieve my target, especially when my results were likely nothing to write home about.


And I was indeed correct, my shooting was barely acceptable at best. The first shot was, of course, entirely outside of the center ring, and the grouping of the remainder of my shots was sloppy at best. Considering that the target had only been twenty feet away and completely stationary, I had a lot of lost ground to make up. Hopefully my comrades didn't rib me too much about my results – I was, after all, just eleven and a complete newbie.


"Let's see how you did, Tanya!" Naoto's jovial voice broke on my ears and forced me to turn and return to the group. Despite my signature cutesy smile, internally I cursed my rotten luck. I'd hoped I could just show this to Tamaki to reinforce my bond as a comrade in arms without embarrassing myself in front of our leader, but no dice. I supposed having an actively involved and hands on leader was an asset, but I wished he'd just let me slink back to the couches without making a production out of all this.


I handed over my target, and did my best to prepare myself for the inevitable criticism. It's not fair! This is my first time using a motor pistol! How was I to know the kickback would be so minuscule?! I kicked myself and stopped my whining inner voice. Fairness had nothing to do with war, and I needed to shape up in a hurry before the leadership decided I needed to ship out.


The criticism I had expected didn't come. Instead, Naoto practically gushed with compliments about my shooting, even complimenting my grouping. I kicked myself again, this time out of shame at how badly I'd underestimated Naoto's managerial skills. I figured a warlord in the making like himself would be quick with the rod and sparing with praise, but clearly he had mastered the art of the barbed compliment. His comments on the grouping were clearly a veiled reference to my sloppiness, but at least he did me the courtesy of sugarcoating it so the strip he tore off my back wouldn't be so visible to the other members of the cell. I wondered if he usually practiced such social manipulation, or if my young appearance had tugged on his big brother instinct, so he was giving me a bit of grace. Either way, I understood the unspoken message here: My work was barely acceptable, and if I wanted to continue being a member of his cell I needed to improve in a hurry.


Message received. I'd have to badger Ohgi into letting me come to the basement on my own, so I could practice my shooting as much as possible before the next meeting. I couldn't fall behind – I had nowhere else to go, and I was in too deep to turn back now.


---------


By the next week, I was fairly confident in my skills with the pistol. I'd managed to hit the inside of the ring with every shot I'd fired for the last two days, even if I wasn't able to hit the same hole with all of my shots each time, which meant I'd finally mastered basic proficiency with my first weapon. The stationary nature of the targets significantly lowered the difficultly level, however, so I'd likely have to find something else to shoot at to further improve my skill level.


Tamaki was apparently feeling good enough to shoot again, and had started off our little meeting with a cheerful challenge of "Lemme show you what some real shooting looks like!"


Tamaki began to blaze away at the row of paper targets nailed into the far wall. This was the first time one of the rebels had practiced their shooting while I was present and not focused on my own practice, and as I saw the concrete chips fly from the designated target wall, I grew increasingly surprised that nobody that practiced their marksmanship in this hole had hurt themselves. Between the flying shards of concrete and the possibility of ricochets, this range suddenly seemed unsafe and shabby. Why they hadn't nailed some lumber to the wall, and then nailed the targets to the wood to provide some form of primitive backstop was beyond me.


The others were sitting on the couches, eating something out of a pot that Ohgi had brought back, some kind of savory stew by the scent of it. My stomach was growling with discontentment, and every time I heard the sounds of spoons hitting bowls I felt myself get a bit hungrier.


Lucky bastards.


Eventually, Tamaki emptied his magazine, and engaged the safety. As I tore my thoughts away from lunch and back to the matter at hand, Tamaki dramatically blew away an imaginary wisp of smoke from the barrel of the gun, and looked down at me with a confident smirk.


"Pretty cool, huh? Wanna see me do it double-gun style?"


Visha, why couldn't you come with me? I wish you were here, so I could pass the burden of training basic aiming into his thick skull. I considered pointing out that only movie cowboys fired from the hip and hit anything, or that the sights on top of the gun were there for a reason, but I bit back those responses and focused on improving resource efficiency instead. "That doesn't sound very accurate."


He rolled his eyes at me. "You've got no sense of what looks cool, none at all. Now, lemme show you what quality shooting looks like, kid." And with that, he turned his back and headed down-range to retrieve his target, leaving me standing at the table. How rude. Naoto seemed to have been inspired by watching Tamaki shoot, and got up and headed to the armory, presumably to get his own gun. Figures. No true battle maniac is going to miss an opportunity to flaunt his skill with a weapon. I only hoped he also chose a pistol, and didn't decide to try asserting his dominance by firing off an RPG or something in the closed confines of the basement.


Tamaki came trotting back, waving a perforated target in one hand. He slowed to a walk as he got close, and slammed the target down on the range table, crowing "Check it out, Brit! Not bad shooting, eh?" as he did.


For a moment, I couldn't move, exerting every ounce of my self-control to hold my rage in check. Brit?! Brit?! I live in a Being X damned slum! I've got a Japanese name! How dare this incompetent waste of oxygen slander me in such a manner? I felt like I was suddenly back in that damned indoctrination facility masquerading as a Britannian sponsored school, being told that I would never hold a job above a menial level on account of my dirty blood and mixed heritage. A Britannian to the Japanese, and a Number to the Britannians. Somewhere, Being X must be laughing to himself. I couldn't believe he'd find a worse moment to reincarnate me into a world than Germany immediately before the Great War, but somehow he'd managed to prove me a fool once again. I was stuck in the middle of a brutal war, where both sides believed I was intrinsically part of the other side. Time to nip this in the bud.


I turned towards Tamaki, Imperial discipline tempering icy anger into bleak clarity. I would treat this as calmly and professionally as possible, using my HR experience to communicate that this behavior was both uncalled for and unproductive in a working relationship.


"My name is Hajime Tanya. I am not a Britannian. I am as Japanese as you are." I chose my words with as much care as I could, remembering that we had an audience, and the long-term goals of our organization. "But that's beside the point. What are you doing here, Tamaki? Why are you fighting Britannia?"


He looked surprised for a moment, then drew himself to his full height, a foot and a half taller than me, and smirked down at me. "I'm here to bust some Brit heads in and make a name for myself! I'm gonna free Japan, and nobody's ever gonna forget me!"


I smiled back up at him, a thin and joyless expression that any good personnel manager cultivates to deploy against excuses for tardiness and poor performance. "To rephrase that, you're a selfish blowhard who just wants to hurt people to try and prove everybody who said you'd never amount to anything wrong." I felt my lips twitch, a quick flash of teeth quickly hidden under icy professionalism once more. "Is that all? Nothing about liberating our people from their chains? Nothing about bringing peace to our shores, so nobody else loses their families or friends? Not interested in feeding our hungry people or rebuilding our broken cities?" I waited a beat – letting my criticism sink in and baiting him to react to it.


He promptly gave in to his hot-blooded impulses. "Now listen here, you lit-"


"Enough!" I barked, using the strength enhancement to force the word out just a bit louder than an adolescent girl should manage. "You can't even defend yourself – you just fall back onto bluster and intimidation! What happens if we do free Japan from the Britannians? Would you respect our people's wishes, and let them decide who should rule? Or would you simply become the new Britannians, another uncaring foot on the broken backs of our suffering neighbors?"


I stormed out of the basement, doing my best to keep my detached mask of expressionlessness as I left. I'd just shot myself in the foot, and I didn't fully understand why. Tamaki likely hadn't meant anything by the initial comment, minor slur though it was, but I had wildly over-reacted to it. And then, instead of displaying any degree of good sense, I'd doubled down and personally attacked him about his motivations and personality. I was a fool, and I'd forgotten that I was the new hire at a closely-knit organization formed from personal ties to a leader I'd just meant two weeks previous. Plus, Tamaki's motivations weren't even that bad – many soldiers had fought for worse reasons, and there was nothing inherently bad about wanting to make your mark on the world. I'd flown wildly off the handle and gone holier-than-thou at the drop of a hat.


I almost checked my neck to see if the Type 95 had emerged from the ether and fastened itself around my neck. Of course, there were no computation gems in this world, much less the cursed 95, so I didn't have the luxury of blaming this particular bad decision on Being X. What a shame.


I made my way out of the decrepit apartment block concealing our hideout and started aimlessly walking through the streets. I needed to wait for tempers to cool a bit before returning and apologizing. I'd need to couch the apology carefully – I wasn't going to apologize for objecting to racial slurs, but I truly had gone overboard. I hoped I wouldn't need to start back from square one when it came to rebuilding my working relationships with the rest of the cell. I didn't have any money to buy forgiveness presents or whatnot, for one thing. Plus, if Naoto and Ohgi thought I was a basket case, a psychological loose cannon, the likelihood of them including me in field operations plummeted. I'd be stuck back minding the base in the best case scenario, relegated to logistical support if I was lucky, simple maintenance and cleaning if I wasn't... Wait, wasn't that exactly the kind of safe, rear-echelon job I wanted? I would be well out of the line of fire while still providing a vitally important service which would play well to my past-life experiences with both Imperial logistical proposals and corporate resource management.


At the same time, I couldn't let myself just take a backseat logistical support role like that. First, there wasn't much promotion potential in such a role – I wasn't anymore interested in being stuck in a dead-end career track under Japanese management than I was in a dead-end job under Britannian management. Second, if I was really getting in on the ground floor of a hostile takeover of the Britannian administration, I needed to carve out a leadership position as quickly as possible. As more new employees were on-boarded, remaining stationary ran the risk of reducing me to just another face in the crowd. Another expendable face in the crowd, that is. Being an early investor who had maintained an active relationship with the middle and upper management would provide far greater security in the long-term.


As I weighed my options, I continued to wander in a vaguely circular pattern, slowly spiraling away from the hideout building. It was easy to see why Naoto had set up shop in this corner of Shinjuku, and why we were meeting in the late afternoon instead of under the cover of night; the area was desolate, even by Shinjuku standards. Crumbling warehouses and shelled apartment blocks bore witness to heavy combat, either during the Conquest or after, and gang tags were plastered on every flat surface available. Considering the lack of even the rudimentary economy that had sprung up in the more livable sections of the ghetto, the only people likely to come here were the desperate or the criminal, and both would likely be more active after the sun went down. Meeting during the day cleverly reduced our exposure to potential informants or violent gangs.


Quite the clever move on Naoto's part. I wondered if his father had arranged for him to be educated in urban tactics, or if this was simply inborn talent.


My thoughts were disturbed by the sounds of coarse laughter and slurred shouting, instantly recognizable as the hallmarks of belligerent drunks in any of my lives. I abruptly realized that I had wandered quite a distance away from the basement hideout, and consequentially placed myself far from my only source of backup. I immediately turned on my heel and began walking back the way I'd come. It was past time to stop pouting and return to the hideout to make my apologies. I hated the taste of humble pie, but I'd count myself lucky if a bit of groveling was all it took to get me off the hook.


I'd taken three steps before I heard feminine shouting coming from the same direction as the drunken laughter. I paused and focused on the sound, just in case I had to step in. Formalized policing in the ghetto was non-existent, and justice, or what passed for it, was generally inflicted by mobs of irate family members and neighbors on the accused. I had, of course, been too young to be obligated to take part in such impromptu exercises in social correction myself, but something of the ethos had rubbed off on me. Much as I respected authority and the rule of law as the bedrock of civilized society, I had been forced to admit that civilized society had been essentially destroyed via the Britannian policies regarding Elevens. When authority itself turned the law into an implement that was not only unjust but also inefficient, and when such law was only capriciously enforced when it benefited wealthy Britannian interests... Frontier justice began to make a lot more sense.


And since I'd only noticed a handful of derelicts up to this point in the area, that meant it was incumbent upon me to enforce justice as I saw it. It's only right, I reasoned with myself even as I drew the motorized pistol from the holster concealed under my baggy shirt, a castoff of Ohgi's I'd commandeered for my own use after my previous garment had crossed the threshold into being more patches than original fabric. I'm trying to improve the lot of everybody stuck in this damned ghetto. Letting drunken hooligans terrorize women is counter-intuitive to that goal.


Safety off, I began to carefully walk towards the intersection ahead, listening to the incoherent confrontation and trying to avoid making any noise that might betray my advance. Suddenly, a clear shout of female anger cut through the hubbub. "I'm no damned Britannian! I'm Japanese! Kozuki Naoto's my big bro, so don't you mess with me!" And just like that, the whole strategic situation changed.


I started moving before I'd clearly thought through what I was about to do. I'd spent two weeks living with Naoto, and every other sentence referenced his little sister, Kozuki Kallen. I knew the man adored his sibling, and cited her as his motivation for fighting against the domination of the Britannians. Even violent men loved their families, I supposed, even if I doubted she was really his sole reason for fighting. I'm sure serving as his father's red right hand when they came into their kingdom was a hefty incentive as well. That said, he was clearly attached to the girl, making her of strategic value to me. If she was hurt or killed, he'd be devastated and might become emotionally unstable, which would impact his ability to calmly plan out operations. Worse, if he ever learned I'd been in a position to help her but had remained aloof, nobody would ever find my body.


Plus, I thought as I broke into a sprint, dropping my attempt at stealth in my urgency, if I make friends with her, my past screw-up will surely be forgiven entirely, and my future as a trusted associate of the Stadtfeld family will be assured! My steps became faster and surer as my enhancements spun up fully, every scrap of mana I had fed into the inefficient mental calculations I was tethered to for lack of a gem.


As I turned the corner, I rapidly assessed the tactical situation. Kallen was easily distinguishable by her bright red hair, so bright I would have thought it was dyed if I didn't know her brother. She was up against a wall, surrounded by four men dressed in shabby clothes but with matching blue rags tied around their right biceps. She was brandishing a knife at the four, and clearly had every ounce of her brother's bloodthirsty personality and fearlessness, as she didn't appear the least bit cowed by the thugs slowly approaching her. I noted that all the targets were equipped with melee weaponry, indicating that the optimal tactic would be engaging them from a distance. As they were threatening a high-value target, I decided that deadly force was acceptable, so long as the target was not harmed.


Finally, an opportunity to use moving targets.


My first shot took the target nearest to me in the small of his back, hopefully damaging his spinal cord and rendering him combat ineffective, but in case I had missed anything important I fired a second shot as he began to fall, catching him in the left side of his back, just below the scapula. The first target serviced, I re-targeted the notches of my motorized pistol on the second target.


The three upright hostiles noticed my presence after the first shot, and had already begun charging towards me as I fired my second shot. Gratifyingly, as the last man in the group rushed past her, Kallen lunged forward and tangled her leading leg in his, tripping him up and knocking him off balance. I hoped she knew how to use that knife of hers to fight as well as to threaten, because I wouldn't be able to help her until I dealt with the other two targets fast approaching me.


Realizing that I would likely be unable to shoot both before they arrived, I adjusted my aim away from the center mass of the leading target and shot his kneecap instead. His leg immediately buckled, and with a howl he collapsed, right into the path of the following target. Disappointingly, instead of doing me a favor and tripping over his disabled comrade, the second target leapt over the fallen target and kept running without missing a step. As he was now within ten feet of me, I dropped my pistol as a hindrance in close quarters combat and charged to meet him.


Seeing me run towards him, he began running even faster, presumably attempting to use his greater mass to bowl me over and then kick me to death once I was on the ground. Instead of meeting him head on and likely being crushed, I waited for the moment right before our impact and with my enhanced reflexes jumped to the side, ducking as I moved, and passed directly under his right arm as I had during Naoto's test. Unlike with Tamaki, I wasn't facing an ally in a friendly spar, but an enemy combatant intent on doing me potentially fatal harm, so I didn't bother with anything fancy like dislocating his shoulder, opting instead for a rapid punch into his back, right below his ribs, smashing his right kidney.


The target bellowed with pain but kept moving forward, presumably more because of his own momentum rather than any particular plan, but either way he was now between me and my dropped pistol, meaning I was now on the clock. So I pursued him with ruthless efficiency, firing a follow-up punch into the other side of his back, targeting his other kidney. Judging by his scream, I'd correctly judged the location of the second kidney, and he began to tip forwards. I followed him to the ground, controlling my descent so I landed with my full weight on my knee, digging into his lumbar spine, ideally pressurizing the cord and inhibiting his ability to use his legs to kick me off. Continuing the forward and down motion, I let my upper body continue along its trajectory, arresting my forward motion by grabbing either side of his head.


I had intended to try breaking his neck by twisting his head, but now that I was on top of him I realized his neck was broad and strong, corded with muscle, and breaking it would be a tricky proposition even with my enhanced strength, so I opted for my second choice tactic. I slid my hands down from his temples to his ears, pulled his head back using my newfound handholds, and slammed it back down into the cracked asphalt. I heard something crack, but it sounded too soft and wet to be his skull, so I assumed it was just his nose, and so continued bouncing his head off the pavement several more times until a deeper-sounding crack indicated I'd made a degree of progress.


Calling it an adequate job, I pushed off the target's back and turned to check on the status of the high-value target. Happily, she appeared to be winning her fight, judging by the blood running down her opponent's face and leaking through his shirt. Good thing someone taught her basic knife skills. As I watched, she stabbed the target right below the sternum and twisted the knife. That's definitely going to collapse at least one lung, I thought, as I turned back to my own affairs and retrieved my pistol. It was a good thing I'd managed to get on the Kozuki's good side – the brother and sister were both born battle maniacs, and such people made far better allies than enemies.


I quickly checked my motor pistol to see if dropping it on the street had caused any visible damage, but it seemed to be in good working order. Satisfied, I approached the target I'd kneecapped, who hadn't managed to get far in his efforts to crawl away. I considered taking him prisoner, but realized that the hideout lacked any facilities to hold prisoners – plus, he wasn't a uniformed combatant, which made him a brigand who could be executed if apprehended, according to the Imperial code of military justice. Further, he had tried to attack a family member of an ally, which meant that by the rules of the ghetto mobs I was well within my rights to dispense justice upon him. Finally, leaving him alive did not benefit operational security in any way I could tell, and might present an active detriment to the objectives of the Resistance.


I still felt somewhat bad about executing him, as killing the wounded was against the laws of war, but that didn't stop me. Feeling bad hadn't stopped me from doing what I had to do before, in Dacia or in Arene, and it didn't stop me now. I was at war once more, and I had no doubt that fighting in an insurgency would require me to do far worse than I'd ever done at the front while in uniform.


I shot him in the head twice, and the chest once. I didn't want him to suffer. After all, I'm not Ohgi. I don't enjoy hurting other people.


---------


[Point of view: Kallen Stadtfeld/Kozuki Kallen]
I looked down at my bloody hands, and felt like I was going to throw up. The red seemed impossibly bright, shining on my hands in the waning sunlight like a beacon, as if the blood was proclaiming my guilt to the world.


I'd never killed before. I'd never even pulled my knife in anger on someone else before today, and now... the knife my brother had given me was buried to the hilt in his... his neck...


I just wanted to visit my brother at the address Ohgi had given me. I knew I could get Naoto to reconsider, to let me help him out, if I just tried one more time, but he'd stopped coming around to Stadtfeld Manor. I hadn't seen him in weeks, and I just wanted him to let me stay with him. I hated that cold house – Father was never around, always off in far away Pendragon, and my bitch of a stepmother dogged my every footstep, and better her than the weak-willed whore who pretended to just be a simple maid...


"Kozuki Kallen?" Hearing my name in a stranger's voice shocked me out of my building panic attack, and I managed to tear my eyes away from the horrified expression of man I'd just killed. Somehow, I doubted getting that expression out of my head would be as easily as just looking away.


For a moment, I wondered if I'd gone crazy when I'd started stabbing that man again and again and again and... I wondered if I'd gone crazy. A doll-like Britannian girl was in front of me, long blonde hair hanging over bright crystal blue eyes, the only imperfection the pattern of red droplets over the left side of her face and hair. She was small, a good head and a half shorter than me, but her thin frame had long, lean muscle. She was wearing a baggy white collarless button-up shirt that looked just like the ones Ohgi sometimes wore. All of this faded into irrelevance, except maybe for the blood splatter, in the light of two key facts: She'd just addressed me with my Japanese name in the correct order, and she was holding a gun in one hand.


I already regretted leaving my knife in that guy's throat. "Who wants to know?" I tried to sound as strong and in control as I could, but I wasn't feeling strong inside. I just couldn't get that man's eyes out of my head, the way he'd looked when he'd tried to scream but only gurgled as blood filled his windpipe...


The doll girl responded promptly in fluent and Tokyo-accented Japanese. "Hajime Tanya. I'm part of your brother's organization." She casually looked around, and I followed her gaze, noting with a dim sense of shock the other three bodies laying around the street. I remembered seeing the first guy falling, but I'd forgotten all about him or the other two as I'd... Anyway, I'd forgotten them. I turned back to the girl, who was staring down at the thing at my feet without any visible emotion. Had she killed all three of them by herself? I looked back up and around the street. It was deserted except for the two of us, and the four bodies scattered around us.


"Not bad work." The bland comment jarred me, and I looked back at Tanya. She was nodding approvingly at me, and smiling. It was actually kind of a cute look, if you ignored the blood, but it was really unnerving considering the situation. "You're really good at the whole close quarters combat thing, huh?" She paused for a moment, like she was giving me time to respond, but I had no idea what to say. Didn't she care that we'd just killed four men? They weren't Britannians either, just other Japanese, but we'd still killed them all the same. I mean, they were probably gonna do something horrible to me, and they weren't exactly helping the Resistance or anything, but... Still, it felt wrong...


After another beat of awkward silence, Tanya apparently realized I wasn't going to say anything and continued. "We should probably get these guys off the street somewhere. The Brits aren't going to care about a few dead Numbers, but it'll draw unnecessary attention to the district." Numbly, I nodded along. Any other time I'd be enraged by the use of that term for my people, particularly from a blonde girl who looked as Britannian as... Well, as Britannian as I did, but that just didn't seem to matter to me right now. Plus, she was right. I didn't want draw any attention to Big Bro's base...


Soon, Tanya and I were hauling the bodies one by one into a nearby alley and dumping them behind a pile of trash. It wasn't a very good hiding spot, but at least it got them out of sight. She'd even pulled my knife out of the first body when I'd forgotten to retrieve it in my haste to get away from the thing. It had made a horribly wet squelch'ing sound as it came out, but she'd casually wiped it off and handed it back to me like she'd just borrowed it to use in the kitchen. I returned the damned thing to my pocket and tried to ignore the impulse to hurl it as far away from me as I could. Much as I hated even touching it now, Shinjuku Ghetto had just been proven how dangerous it could be for a lone woman, and I didn't have any other weapon available.


After we'd concealed the last corpse and wiped the blood off ourselves though I don't think I'll ever be able to get all that wet, shiny blood off my hands, Tanya led the way to Naoto's hideout. I don't think I said a thing on the way back, I just wanted to see Big Bro and hug him and feel safe and clean and innocent again.

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 4: A Stressful Conversation

(AN: A bit of a shorter chapter this time around, but very dialogue heavy. I had to push my comfort zone a bit with this one, so I hope you guys like it. This chapter is supposed to be the end point for our first mini-arc, revolving around Tanya joining the Kozuki Cell. After this I'm gonna have to start generating some suspicious internet history to research modern guerrilla tactics, I think. Anyway, thank you all very much for your comments and criticism. The comments make me want to write, and the criticism helps me improve my writing. And a big thank you to Siatru for beta reading this chapter.)


As we began to trudge back to the hideout, I felt the usual tremors as the adrenaline released by the fight slowly worked its way out of my body. Looking over at Kallen from the corner of my eye, she seemed similarly shaky on her feet, and with an oddly blank expression on her face. I hadn't known the girl for very long, but everything I'd seen personally or heard from Naoto and Ohgi about her told me this was very unlike her. I turned my attention back to the street ahead and pondered why she'd look so hollow, considering we'd won a nearly flawless victory – neither of us had been injured, after all, and no hostiles had escaped to tattle to the Britannians or to gangsters about us.


Suddenly, I realized that she'd probably been treated like a princess her entire life, considering how she had been formally adopted by Lord Statdfeld as his legitimate heir, unlike Naoto, and how her older brother apparently doted on her. She'd probably never been in the ghetto before, nor been accosted on the streets by thugs. Such an experience was probably disconcerting for a well-bred young noble who'd never fought before... Although, that didn't fully explain her hollow-eyed gaze. Honestly, it's like she just stood watch on the Rhine or something! Finally, that clicked the last piece of the puzzle into place.


She's never fought before, I realized, which means she's almost certainly never killed before either. I considered that she might have killed before, as political assassination seemed a natural extension of the state ideology of Social Darwinism, but I discarded that thought. Disappearing rivals seemed like adult work instead of a task for the young heir to a noble house, if only because most of my age peers couldn't keep a purloined candy bar secret, much less a body. Which meant that she had just stood her own personal watch, and it also meant that she was in a similar position to I had been after Norden: the social rules of her society prohibited any display of emotional weakness or vulnerability resulting from combat. If I'd let anyone know how it had felt, coming so close to death and knowing that I'd sent others into the hands of Being X... Well, I'd probably have been court-martialed for cowardice, or discharged from the military and left bereft of my pension and rank.


This put me in a tricky position, as I wanted to both reassure her about her actions and to press my advantage and network with her, while not making her think I saw her as a weakling or vulnerable by acknowledging the stress she was under.


So, I decided to start warming her up through small-talk. Gotta build a bridge to cross the river.


"We should probably hurry back – Ohgi brought a fine pot of stew in to share today, but I don't trust that lot to save any for us." Food was a safe topic and a great icebreaker. After all, everybody gets hungry just the same, and nobody can ever be sure where their next meal's coming from. "I don't know where he got it, but he usually brings the food to these meetings even though I never see him cooking."


Kallen didn't appear to have heard me, as she gave no reaction and just continued walking straight ahead. Guess food isn't as interesting if you're a noble, huh? Time for the second arrow in my social quiver.


"Have you ever been to Shinjuku before? It's not exactly a great place to visit, at least these days, but it was quite an industrious area before the Conquest." Ugh, dammit, that was terrible! My social quiver wasn't as deep as I would like, apparently. What do children talk about? More to the point, what do noble children talk about? At least this time Kallen had grunted a response, decidedly unladylike but at least an acknowledgment that she'd heard me.


Well, I knew at least one topic she'd certainly be passionate about, and hopefully would be eager to brag about.


"That's quite a lovely knife you've got! Good steel, and it looks eminently concealable. Where did you get it? I want one just like it!" I'd gotten a good look at her clasp knife when I'd handed it back to her, and it was a fine piece. Interestingly, instead of a typical hilt, it was attached to a miniature makeup bag, and apparently when folded away was visually undetectable. Perhaps she really does have some experience disappearing enemies of her house after all...


That my last conversational gambit had struck home was immediately apparent, as Kallen whipped around on her heel, turning to face me. However, instead of the happy smile of a kid with a toy to show off or the joy of an enthusiast given license to spout off about their pet obsession I'd expected, her flaring nostrils and furrowed brow indicated a wildly different reaction than anticipated.


"What the hell is wrong with you?! You're just chatting on and on about food and the damned scenery! Don't you care that we just killed four men?!" I immediately began backpedaling from the image of feminine fury before me, but Kallen pursued relentlessly, taking a step forward for each pace I reeled back. "They're dead! I killed one of them myself, and I don't think I'll ever fucking feel clean again!"


Clearly, I'd touched a nerve.


Time to re-contextualize our conversation before she either pulled her knife back out again, or I tripped over something and broke my skull open on the curb.


"You think I don't know they're dead?!" I snapped back, trying to seize some part of the initiative back. "I've spent years in Shinjuku Ghetto! I lived through the Conquest! I've seen more mass executions with my own eyes than I've had birthdays! I know what death looks like!"


I remembered how, four months after my mother and I had been moved to Shinjuku, a hundred random Elevens, rounded up from the tenements we lived in, had been lined up against a wall and shot after a Britannian with a broken neck was found in an alleyway. Nobody even knew if he'd been murdered, he could have just fallen over and broken his own neck by accident. He probably had been murdered, but that was immaterial. Under armed guard, I along with everyone else in the building at the time had been forced to walk past the heap of corpses piled three or four deep in bloody heaps in front of the wall. That had been the first time I'd seen Britannian justice in action.


"Trust me, spend enough time down here in the dirt, and you'll see plenty of death too!" I took a deep breath, and continued more calmly. "Besides, they deserved what they got. What did you think they were gonna do to you?"


That question seemed to take some of the wind out of her sails, as Kallen stopped walking towards me. "I... I know they weren't gonna do anything good!" She snapped, her voice still waspish. "I'm not an idiot! But..." Her voice tapered off into silence, and she wrapped her arms protectively around her waist.


I shrugged. I understood that she was still feeling shaken after her blooding, but I wasn't sure what else we could have done, once things escalated to violence. "You'd already pulled a knife on them before I arrived." I pointed out reasonably, "What did you think you were going to do with it? A threat only works if you're willing to back it up, after all."


"Dammit, I know! I hadn't thought that far ahead!" Kallen was still emotional, but it felt like her anger was flagging, like she was running out of steam. "I just wanted them to go away and leave me alone." Her arms tightened around her waist, and she suddenly sat down on the curb, like her legs couldn't support her.


She's not wounded, is she? Panic flared through me at the prospect. Naoto would gut me like a fish if his sister had a scratch on her, and collapsing like that made me suspect significant blood loss. But, I couldn't see any blood, and when we'd been moving the bodies earlier, she hadn't looked in pain... Worried, I sat down next to her – if I remained on my feet, I'd loom over her like an authority figure, even with my sadly diminutive height.


"I just wanted them to leave me alone..." Kallen sighed and rested her forehead against her knees. "I know they were bad people, but I just can't stop seeing his face!" The last bit came out in a distinctly wet, keening tone. "I just kept stabbing him over and over and there was so much blood all over my hands!"


I gingerly patted her back, trying to figure out how to deal with all this... emoting. She was about the same age Visha had been when I'd met her, and older than I'd been when I'd first killed, but Visha had already completed basic training by that point and I was a special case. I'd never had to deal with this guilt in other people before, and the most similar experience I could remember was when Grantz had lost perspective during the Battle for Arene. I didn't know how to fix this. Even back when I was working in HR, I'd had difficulty dealing with the raw emotional outbursts that grief and trauma inspired, and I'd usually managed to delegate those particular cases to my coworkers.


"I don't think you've done anything wrong." I offered, my voice more tentative than I'd intended. "I mean, they were going to hurt you. They just were unlucky when they chose you as their victim." I continued absentmindedly patting her back as I rambled on. "I don't think you're a bad person for defending yourself."


Suddenly, inspiration crossed my mind – if she was Naoto's sister, perhaps his decision to fight for his people was matched by her own actions? "Besides, what if you hadn't helped me stop them? What if they found some other poor girl on her own, who didn't have a gun or a knife to defend herself with?" I stopped patting her back, as it didn't seem to be doing much, and instead focused on putting all my energy into my reassurance. "You know they've probably done that in the past, and they probably would've done it again. But they won't, Kallen. We stopped them, and made it so they'd never hurt anyone else again. So don't feel bad about it, okay? It was a shock – the first time is always hard – but you're doing the same thing your brother is. You're taking the fight to the vultures feasting on our people in their darkest hour."


I looked away from Kallen, and let my eyes drift up into the sky. I wondered how many people in Shinjuku, or in all of Area 11, just needed this kind of justification to inflict the same level of violence as Kallen had displayed? Hopefully quite a few. We're going to need to start recruiting if we want to make real progress.


"I'll tell you a secret," I began to speak again, heart in my mouth. I could feel this was my chance to get in with Kallen, but to forge a truly strong relationship I would need to expose a degree of vulnerability to level the playing field, since I'd seen her lose control. If I didn't equal out the power balance, it would taint our future relationship, which would both inhibit my long-term goal of security and might isolate the one person of a similar age I could be anything close to open with. After all, if Kallen betrayed me to an outsider, she'd be compromising the security of her brother's cell. And if I gave her a bit of power over me, then perhaps she'd be willing to reciprocate in the future?


"I don't like fighting. I hate the waste of lives, of material, of energy, and of potential." I closed my eyes and wondered what this street had looked like before the Conquest. Prosperous and busy, no doubt. "I hate it all. If I had my way, I'd never pick up a gun again in my life." There, it was out. A sincere expression of vulnerability. Hopefully she wouldn't tell Naoto about it – such sentiments were probably grounds for immediate dismissal from both the cell and life.


"But," I continued, looking back at Kallen again, "it's worth it for the prospect of victory. Fighting like this, for me, is a sacrifice, one I'm willing to make for my goals." I tried to catch her eye, but she was still burying her face against her knees. "That feeling you've got, that guilt... It's a sacrifice too, I think. It's the price you paid to make life for the people in the Ghetto just a bit better, and maybe to save the lives of some future victims."


Kallen didn't respond, but at least she didn't look like she was crying any longer. It sounded like her breathing had stabilized and deepened too, so hopefully she'd taken the time as I rambled on to calm down a bit.


"You want to join your brother's cell, right? The way Ohgi tells it, that's all you ever talk about."


That got a weak chuckle out of Kallen. "Yeah, but he always says crap like I'm too young to fight and such." She looked up from her knees and gave me a searching look, like she was looking for something I was concealing. "How'd you get him to let you in? No way you're older then me."


I shrugged, unsure exactly what I'd said that had won him over anyway. "The Britannians killed my mother, and I never knew my father. Ohgi was good enough to give me a place to sleep." I wondered if I should mention the sack of grenades before deciding that talking about our arms cache in public was a bad idea. "One thing just led to another after that point, I suppose."


She seemed interested and engaged, so I decided to throw a conversational ball back to see if I could keep her moving in the right direction. "Why do you want to join up so badly? Why do you want to fight, Kallen?"


Kallen froze, and for a moment I wondered if I'd screwed up again, but she shook herself and started speaking only a moment later. "Well... why do any Japanese wanna fight, huh? Nobody likes being forced to eat dirt... And I remember what life was like before the Britannians showed up." She sighed again and looked back down at her knees. "It was nice, we were like a family... Dad was always around, and that made Mom happy... And this was before she lost her spine and sold out..." The hint of anger when she mentioned her father, and borderline snarl when mentioning her mother indicated Kallen's past wasn't as happy as she described it, but I kept quiet and let her talk. "Naoto would help me with my homework, and we'd go on family trips to Mount Fuji and stuff..."


She paused for a moment, and then turned back to face me again. "I want that happiness back, and I want that happiness for everyone else too. I want to see a free and peaceful Japan where we can live our lives without being afraid, without having to hide who we are or face their hate." And then a steel familiar from interacting with Naoto entered her eyes, and her expression firmed. "And I want revenge on all the bastards who take advantage of suffering people to get rich or whatever. We didn't do anything to deserve any of this, and those bastards just do whatever they want and say it's just and right. Bastards!"


That last bit seemed even more passionate than her opinions about her parents, so I remained quiet and gestured for her to continue talking. I don't think she needed that invitation, as she continued to vomit accumulated thoughts and feelings that I sensed had been building for some time. "My father enrolled me in a private school, Ashford Academy. It's full of some of the snootiest noble brats you'll ever see, Tanya! They're all so spoiled and self-absorbed – they don't care what they're wealth's based on! They don't care whose bones their houses are built on top of! They just care about who's seeing who, or which team's gonna win some stupid game! Whenever they remember us Japanese exist, they say the worst things, and tell awful, nasty jokes! I hate them all! And worst of all, I've gotta pretend I'm just like them! Just as stupid and self-involved as they are!"


Well, it seemed like my suspicions about Lord Stadfeld were absolutely correct. He was clearly setting Kallen up to be his conduit into the ranks of the local nobility; the sons and daughters of local power players were her classmates, and through them she'd have access to all kinds of information and gossip, and would be able to distribute her own carefully selected bits of misdirection and propaganda once established as part of the scene. Truly, this shadowy noble was a masterful strategist, content to play the long game.


Unfortunately, like all great plans, the actual implementation required the participation of people who either didn't know or didn't see the full extent of the operation. Clearly, Kallen hadn't been briefed on her father's plan, or she wouldn't be so determined to join the Resistance's combat operations. Her potential value of a spy greatly outweighed the value of the Kozuki Cell, but she couldn't see it. This required a deft touch, but I couldn't let the opportunity slip by! Such a slip-up could throw the whole plan, as well as my own long-term survival, into jeopardy!


"Kallen, I understand what you're saying." I began, trying to sound as calm as possible. Didn't she know what was at stake? No, she doesn't. Why didn't Stadtfeld brief her himself?! "It's clear that you're putting up with a lot. But... it's part of your sacrifice for Japan too, isn't it?" Her look of befuddlement indicated she didn't understand what I was getting at. I sighed internally, and started again.


"Kallen, you are ideally placed to help the Resistance in incalculable ways right now." That got her attention.
"What do you mean?! How does sitting around pretending to be some worthless noble do anything for Japan?!"


The hook was set. Time to once again pick up the slack and do someone else's job for them. "You just said it yourself, Kallen – your father put you in a school with the offspring of the local nobility. You're right next to people who live in the same houses as the local powerbrokers, and who will one day grow up to inherit their family's wealth and power. Who knows what secrets they'll let slip in conversation? The son of an officer might talk about his father's deployments, or the daughter of a magnate might mention where her father's going to go for a business trip! You're sitting on a gold mine of information that could help the Resistance in so many ways!"


Her eyes widened with amazement, but I continued on, hammering the point home. "And it's not just information you could help the Resistance with from your position, Kallen! Say you drop a word here or a whisper there about some piece of propaganda we want the nobility to hear, they'll never thing twice about it because it's coming from someone they see as one of their own! And," I wasn't sure about this part, but I figured Naoto's sister would appreciate a sop thrown to her violent nature, "if we need to get some leverage on a particular noble, well... You know where their kids are. You know their schedules. If the Resistance needs to a handle on a noble, you'll be crucial to the success of a very important mission."


Alright, I'd made my point about her importance to the Resistance. Now, I had to seal the deal by making her position not only important, but enviable. Deep breaths. "You know, I'm kind of jealous of your position, Kallen."


"What?! Why?" Her eyes narrowed... did she suddenly decide that I'm a rival? "Do you want to be important to the Resistance or something?" Dammit!


"Not like that." I truthfully replied. Human intelligence had never been a specialty of mine, and I didn't think my skills lay in that direction. "Just... I miss going to school. I couldn't go after the Conquest – the schools all got shut down – and the Britannian one in the Ghetto isn't worth a damn." I turned away from Kallen and blinked, trying to get rid of the dust in my eyes. These streets are filthy. "I was pretty good at math, and not too bad at English either. But after the Conquest... Well, if I didn't work, I didn't get to eat, so school wasn't really an option. I've always wondered what I would've done in middle school and high school if the Conquest hadn't happened." The stupid dust wasn't going anywhere, and I found myself growing annoyed. I'd been building to a good point to encourage Kallen to stay in school instead of sneaking out to the slums and jeopardizing the plan, but here I was rambling on about my stupid discarded plans. It's not like I needed schooling, after all, but it had represented a path to success that I knew well and understood.


I nearly jumped out of my skin as a pair of arms snaked around my shoulders and pulled me in. Thankfully, I realized it was Kallen and stopped scrambling for my pistol – I hadn't needed Naoto's lecture to remind me pulling a gun on ally's was never a good idea. Unfortunately, once deadly force was off the table, I was at a loss for what the correct response should be to a sudden hug. When I'd received just such a hug from her brother, I'd just started crying, and I resolved to not repeat that particular performance. She'd pulled me against her chest and apparently rested her forehead on top of my skull. I suddenly understood what it felt like to be a teddy bear, and I wasn't sure I liked the experience or not.


"I'm sorry, Tanya." She'd started crying again, I dimly noticed as I felt something wet trickle onto my scalp. "I've been complaining about the kids at school and feelin' left out and all that, and you've got it so much worse." Kallen sniffled, "I guess I am just like those spoiled bastards after all – I'm so worried about my own crap, I didn't realize how good I had it."


I honestly didn't know if this was a success or a failure. On one hand, Kallen clearly wasn't angry with me and hadn't pushed back on any of the points I'd made about the value of her position. On the other hand, I didn't know how making her cry again would impact the situation and this damned dust is still making my eyes water!


I tried to thing of how to smooth this latest apparent misstep over, and found myself at a loss once more. I'd somehow made her feel guilty or ashamed, to the point where she felt the need to hug me, presumably to try and comfort me because I didn't see how this would make her feel any better. Worse still, even with my relative lack of social interaction over the last eleven years, I knew that stiffly sitting here like a statue wouldn't improve the situation.


What would Visha do in this situation? I wondered, casting my mind back to the only significant female acquaintance I'd had in my past lives. An image of the Slavic girl came to mind, complete with her typically bright and enthusiastic smile, standing in a street in Berun waving at me and jogging over. The prickling in my eye got much worse, despite the lack of any breeze.


Moving on a vague instinct, I turned into the hug, and wrapped my arms around Kallen's waist. She didn't feel like Visha – she didn't have the hard muscle that years of harsh training and combat had put on my second, and she didn't have the smell of coffee and gunpowder that I remembered from all the times Visha had pressed a hot beverage into my hand after a patrol, but she was there, and that was good enough. Coffee! That's it! It had always been an absolute relief when Visha had handed me a cup of her specially prepared brew. But, no, I couldn't do that! I didn't have access to the beans, much less Visha's preternatural skill when it came to brewing it just right! What else did she do...? Ah, yes!


"I'll... I'll cook something for you!" My voice was disgustingly wet again, dammit, but the inner Visha in my head cheered and waved something that looked suspiciously like K-Brot at me. I chuckled at the memory of her chowing down on that awful stuff, ending in a hiccuping hitching breath. I'd eat a plate of K-Brot if I could see the 203rd again...


Then I remembered that I didn't have any money for groceries or ingredients, and that my cooking ability more or less began and ended with brick noodles and fried eggs, and tried to recant my offer. "O-on second thought, I'll make Ohgi cook you something!" Wait, that wasn't good either! Ohgi was my superior officer, I couldn't make him do anything! "I mean, I'll ask Ohgi to cook something for you!" Could Ohgi cook any better than I could? I don't think he actually made the food he brought around for dinner during meetings...


For some reason, this made Kallen laugh. I hadn't been trying to make a joke, but I didn't think she was laughing at me. That seemed out of character for her – she seemed more likely to stab me face to face than trying to slip a knife between my ribs from behind.


"Don't worry about all that!" She let go of me and I hastily followed suit, scrambling to my feet as she stood up, wiping at her face. "I know where Ohgi's secret snack stash is – Naoto told me! We don't need to bother to ask him for anything!"


Normally, I considered theft to be a decidedly antisocial action, usually reserved for the shiftless or the communist, but I had probably missed my chance at that stew... And it had been an awfully long time since I'd had any candy... And Kallen was smiling, with only a trace of the haunted expression she'd had before we'd sat down, and I felt like I couldn't deny her anything. She had every bit of her brother's charisma, effortless cheerful and deadly infective. I found myself smiling back at her, already salivating at the prospect of sweets.


"Well, what are we waiting for?!" I demanded, and began heading back to the hideout at a much faster pace than before. "C'mon, it's this way!" She easily caught up to me with her longer legs, and together we left that intolerably dusty street behind.


---------


Unfortunately, all candy acquisitions were put on the back burner by the reception we received back at the hideout.


I'd temporarily forgotten all about my confrontation with Tamaki as I'd talked with Kallen, and only remembered when we turned the corner onto the block where the apartment building stood. Still, I wasn't actually a child so I didn't have the freedom to simply run away again, and so I'd led Kallen through the trash-strewn lobby and down the stairs to the sub-basement entrance.


As soon as we entered, the chugging sounds of the generator were overwhelmed by seemingly everyone in the hideout yelling or shouting. Naoto was shouting something at Kallen, and judging by his expression he wasn't pleased to see her here. Ohgi was yelling at me, demanding to know where I'd run off to. Inoue was shouting at Tamaki, who had a look of harried desperation on his face and was walking towards me. The only island of calm was Nagata, who presumably only wasn't yelling because the soft-spoken man didn't want to contend with everyone else, and was willing to wait his turn to make a scene.


"Yes, fine, okay, but she saved my life, Naoto!" That exclamation from Kallen cut through the din, and successfully re-oriented everyone's attention away from me and towards her. She blushed slightly as every eye in the basement turned towards her, but gamely continued speaking. "There were four of them, all armed! No way I could've beaten them or gotten away before they grabbed me, but then Tanya showed up and blew three of 'em away!" And then those eyes turned my way instead. Thanks Kallen, I thought as I tried to ignore the rising heat high on my cheekbones and Being X damn these damned pubescent hormones!


"What about the fourth one?" Naoto, at least, was on the ball. "Did he get away?" He sounded very serious, and I wondered if he was more concerned about news of two Britannian looking girls wandering Shinjuku getting out, or about a man who had threatened his sister getting to live.


"I dealt with him." Kallen's voice was flat and curt, but happily she didn't seem as distraught as she had when we'd stopped up in the streets. Naoto looked at her for a moment longer, nodded, and then briefly embraced his sister.


Then, he came over to me and did the same thing. What is it with Kozukis and hugging me? I wondered if their whole family was equally touchy. It seemed wildly out of character for what I knew of Britannians, which admittedly wasn't much beyond their murderous policies and propaganda. Either way, I endured the embrace stolidly, sensing there would be no benefit in trying to squirm free of his arms.


"Thank you for protecting my sister." Naoto's breath was hot against my ear, and I could smell the onions from the soup on his breath. Nevertheless, such a direct expression of approval and praise made me feel like my hard work had been recognized. Further, such a commendation, a deliberate statement of the service rendered, likely meant a permanent step up in his estimations. Another step on the road to victory.


As Naoto pulled away from me, presumably to go fuss over his sister and make sure she was unscathed from her first kill, Tamaki made his way over. Every line of his face above the stiff grin he sported spoke of stress, and neither his casual slouch nor the hand resting easily on his neck distracted from the uneasy way he shifted back and forth on his feet.


He looked so uncomfortable that I decided to be the figuratively bigger man, and say my piece first.


"Tamaki, I'm sor-" "Ah, can it." I blinked in surprise as Tamaki interrupted my attempt to apologize. "I screwed up, and I'm sorry." He shuffled in place and looked down at his feet as I blinked again. "I shoulda known better than to call you that. I know you live in Shinjuku, and no Brits live in Shinjuku. And... And I probably shoulda been more serious when you asked me all that stuff." He grimaced, but managed to force the words out. "Ohgi told me about your mom. I'm sorry she's gone, kid. My old man got hit by a stray round back during the Conquest." He gulped nervously. "So, there. I'm sorry. I'll try not to mouth off at you again, okay?"


I realized my jaw was slack with amazement and hurriedly closed my mouth. I'd never expected Tamaki to apologize to me for anything, since I was lower on the seniority totem pole than him, but the really surprising part was how sincere and accurate his apology had been. He'd managed to correctly identify what had angered me, had apologized for it, and had managed to express his sincerity through personal anecdotes.


Overall, an ideal apology.


"Tamaki, I'm sorry. I over-reacted, and made things personal." I was annoyed by how wide his eyes had suddenly gotten. Was the idea of me recognizing and admitting my failures so inconceivable? I wasn't anything too special, not in this world of mechanical monsters driven by monstrous men. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to make your mark on the world. Just remember that everybody else has a right to live in this world before you mark it, alright?"


He smiled and laughed, and swaggered back off towards the firing range, the stress melting off leaving only the same obnoxious braggadocio as usual behind. Despite his insolent attitude, I couldn't help but bask in the glow of camaraderie. They were no 203rd, no living machine that could single-handedly turn a war around... But I'd built the 203rd from the ground up, which meant that I knew how to organize and train an independent, highly-mobile, and aggressive military command.


Just a pity I don't have any artillery.

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 5: A Productive Expedition

(AN: Thank you to Siatru for beta reading this chapter, and thank you to everybody for the fascinating conversations.)


Four days later, I was back in the basement with the rest of the Kozuki cell, minus Kallen. Despite her continued protestations, Naoto wouldn't be budged and told her to keep attending classes at Ashford Academy. I hoped she remembered the points I had made about the many opportunities presented by her enrollment, but that was out of my hands for now.


Naoto had called another meeting three days earlier than our usual scheduled weekly get-together because of a bit of news he'd heard through the Resistance grapevine from a group in Arakawa. This particular bit of intelligence was specifically interesting because it revealed the fates of about three hundred unlucky Numbers who had been rounded up and taken to parts unknown a week earlier.


"...They're working on the new maglev bridge over the Sumida River. It seems like the Britannians want to expand the Taito line into the new Concessions in Sumida." Naoto rambled on, gesturing at the crumpled and heavily annotated road map of pre-Conquest Tokyo on the table in front of him. Judging by the enthusiasm in his voice, the budding warlord was happy to finally have a target in his sights, and I could see why. The maglev system was one of the crowning engineering achievements of the Britannian occupation, replacing the ruined Tokyo subway and rail system with a new ultra-modern transportation network. Apparently, the trains were somehow powered or moved by Sakuradite, although the exact mechanism was beyond my understanding. I could only assume that the vast quantities of Sakuradite being mined in Area 11 made such a resource-heavy project plausible.


More to the point, while crippling or slowing down the construction of the maglev system would be a black eye for the current Britannian administration, freeing the now enslaved Shinjuku residents would give us a significant PR boost, as well as a pool of possible recruits. It was certainly an enticing target.


However, I strongly suspected it would be a bad move for a group such as ours to aim that high. It was a virtual guarantee that the worksite of such an important and highly visible project would be heavily guarded by Britannian soldiers, likely backed up by Knight Police, civilianized Knightmare Frames used for crowd control, at the very least. Considering how important the project was, as well as how close it was to the central Tokyo Settlement of the Britannian Concession, I'd be very surprised if there weren't Glasgows deployed at the site as well. There was also the consideration that, if any Britannian soldiers did die during our strike on the work site, a hundred times that number of Numbers would pay the price, which would both be counter to our organization's long-term objective, and likely to turn the local population against the Resistance, or at least make them less likely to pass on information.


I need to talk Naoto out of this, somehow. I thought, otherwise this battle maniac is going to shoot us all in the foot! Fortunately, I had an enticing alternative target already lined up, thanks to some gossip of my own I'd collected two days ago while helping out at a courier service.


"I have a suggestion, sir." I began, when Naoto finally paused to take a breath. All eyes turned to me, and I took a moment to make eye contact with each of the other people around the table. I was pleasantly surprised to see that everyone was paying attention to me and nobody looked indignant that the new recruit was speaking up during a planning meeting, so I took the cue to carry on.


"At the moment, I don't think it's wise for us to attack the worksite." I began, making my first point as diplomatically as possible. "Currently, there's only six people in our organization, and the only weapons we have are small arms and light anti-vehicle missiles." That was a generous, though accurate, way to describe the forlorn pair of RPGs leaning against a wall in the armory. "The maglev line is a major Britannian project, right? There will be Knightmares guarding the job site, and we don't have anything that can take down a Glasgow." And that was the rational argument for not attacking the job site, but I didn't think that alone would dissuade Naoto. Fanatics of any stripe are notoriously resistant to reason, after all.


"Furthermore, if we kill Britannian soldiers, we all know who will pay the price." And now for the ideological argument. "The prime objective of our organization is to improve the lives of the Japanese and safe-guard their wellbeing, right?" A silent chorus of nods, ranging from Nagata's enthusiastic nodding to the single curt nod from Ohgi. Naoto gestured fro me to continue, and so I duly resumed my pitch. "Well, in the light of that objective, I suggest that we avoid striking at Britannian targets for now, and instead focus on closer targets in the Shinjuku Ghetto. I think we should begin striking back at the criminal gangs that are terrorizing our people."


"Wait, what?!" Tamaki was, of course, the first and loudest to make his concerns known. "Why the hell should we attack other Japanese? We're here to fight the damned Brits, not each other!"


I nodded at him, acknowledging his issue. I was proposing a realignment of the operational strategy to a less obvious target and apparently abandoning a key ideological plank of our platform. It was natural that the old guard would have concerns about such an abrupt departure.


"There are two broad arguments supporting this course of action, the first ideological and the second practical." I moved my eyes away from Tamaki and back to Naoto, who raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "First, the ideological: Everything we do, we do on behalf of the Japanese nation and its people. We've all agreed on that point. And of course attacking the target in Sumida would serve the Japanese nation by freeing its enslaved citizens from their capture, and by slowing the grinding advance of the Concession into another Tokyo district." I paused for effect, and to take a deep breath. This bit was important, but possibly a deal-breaker with hardliners like Naoto and Ohgi. "At present, every time we kill a Britannian soldier, a hundred Japanese die. I don't think that exchange serves the Japanese nation very well. If we free all three hundred workers allegedly at the job site, but a thousand civilians are murdered as a result, haven't we just spent seven hundred lives without any gain?"


A thoughtful silence fell over the table, and I smiled internally to see my new comrades thinking the issue over. Ever since the Conquest, one of the biggest gripes I'd had with the many insurgents in the Ghetto was how thoughtless they seemed, as if they could never draw the connection between their actions and the mass reprisals, nor how these reprisals would impact everybody touched by them. Inserting that concern into the decision matrix of even a small terrorist cell already made undergoing all those tests completely worth it.


"Instead, I think we should try to serve the interests of the Japanese nation in a more oblique way, at least for now." I continued my pitch, moderating my tone to be more calm and reconciling, instead of confrontational or assertive. "Britannians aside, I think the greatest collective cause of misery in the slums is the various gangs. They make a bad situation worse, beating and stealing and selling addictive drugs to anyone with coin to spend." I smiled at the mutter of agreement at that point. Nobody liked the vulture-like criminal groups that had descended on Shinjuku after the breakdown in law and order, but they were too deeply entrenched to be easily removed at this point. "If we can break the power of the gangs in Shinjuku, we will improve the lives of everybody else living here, doing an enormous service to the Japanese nation. Even better, the Britannians won't care about Elevens killing Elevens, so there won't be any reprisals either, so any gains we make won't be tainted with mass executions."


Naoto nodded and smiled at me. "Very true! Honestly, that would be a major upside – it'd probably make it way easier to sleep afterwards, eh?" As quick as it came, the cheerful enthusiasm disappeared, replaced by a more serious expression. Ah, time to get down to brass tacks, eh? "I'm assuming that was the ideological argument for targeting the criminal element in Shinjuku – but what's your 'practical' argument, Tanya?"


I smiled back in gratitude, happy for the smooth transition he'd provided as well as the implicit acceptance of my first point. "Well, sir, there's a variety of practical benefits to striking the gangs." I resisted the urge to get up and start pacing. It would have been more visually attractive, forcing my audience to actively follow my movements, not to mention working out some of the nervous tension that making my first big pitch as a member of the Kozuki Cell was building in my system. But, doing so would break the personal connection eye contact inspires, not to mention signaling my distance from the group, which would be counter-intuitive.


"First, the material benefits: If we start striking gang armories, stash houses, and drug labs, we'll likely get our hands on all kinds of useful material, including weapons, ammunition, medical supplies, money, and explosives. This will both increase our own organizational strength and weaken the enemy." The material benefits were simple and clear-cut, an ideal sweetener to entice the audience's interest. Judging by how everybody had started unconsciously leaning in towards the table, it had worked.


"That'd be huge!" Inoue burst in excitedly, and I shut my mouth and looked over at her, implicitly ceding the floor to her. I'd learned that she was actually the logistics officer for the cell, such as one member in a now-six man organization could be. "You know things have been pretty tight lately, since the latest Concession expansion pushed so many people into Shinjuku. Prices were already high, but now everyone's hoarding whatever they can get their hands on. Especially medicine."


I nodded at that, as did everyone else. The latest expansion had caused the population of Shinjuku to swell by at least 20,000. The livable parts of the district had already been densely over-crowded and food had been expensive; with the latest population increase the winter would be very hard. Any structure that offered a hint of shelter and warmth from the elements was already spoken for, so inevitably some people wouldn't find any refuge from the cold. Potable water and food were already in critically short supply, and as the cold came and small individual or community plots stopped producing, things would get even worse.


Even worse, while the Britannians had stepped up their investment in public health after the Osaka Outbreak, disease was still a constant concern. Tuberculosis, diptheria, cholera, and influenza were all common in the Ghetto, and potential death sentences, particularly since so few people were getting their full daily caloric requirements met, to say nothing of adequate vitamins. In the entertainment districts, untreated syphilis had been the bane of my mother's old co-workers in the years since the end of the invasion and the collapse of the health care system, and of course the Britannians refused to provide life-saving antibacterial medication to prostitutes.


In short, the situation was dire. Medical supplies, food, clean water, and shelter were all in critically short supply in the Ghetto, and prices were going up.


Naoto grimaced and nodded at that. "For sure. Wonder if the gangs are waiting for prices to get even higher before they start selling their stockpiles, or if they're going to hoard them for themselves?" He shrugged and turned back to me. "You were saying?"


Right, onto the next point! "Yes sir. Putting it very bluntly, we need to recruit. The entirety of the Kozuki Organization is sitting at this table, and six people aren't enough to do meaningful damage to the Britannians." Naoto looked like he was going to say something, but swallowed his words and nodded for me to continue. "Now, a large part of why recruiting from the slums is difficult is because of the gangs. The gangs are both a competing organization vying for the allegiance of young people willing to do violence, and as an inhibiting factor for recruiting more seasoned people who have more to lose. After all, it's hard to sign up for the Resistance if it means your family might be left alone in a crime invested district. People who are honorable and want to build a better life for their children are unlikely to leave those children to the tender mercies of gangsters."


Surprisingly, Nagata broke in to the conversation this time. "You're damned right about that." For the first time since I'd met him, he looked visibly angry, his brow creased furiously and his usually placid eyes all but bursting with emotion. "Every time I leave my wife and daughter for one of these meetings or an operation, I wonder if I'll come home to find out they've been kidnapped, or attacked, or killed. And..." He closed his eyes and took a breath before continuing. "And the idea that I'll die one day, and they'll be left in Shinjuku without help or protection... It bothers me."


After a moment of silence, I continued. "Finally, some of the gangs are in the pocket of Britannians. Probably not the Administration itself, but certainly some nobles hire slum gangs as legbreakers, or go into business with them. This is bad enough already, as it means the Britannians are able to pit us against ourselves with their filthy money, but the implications are even worse. If the gangs are willing to sell violence on demand to the Britannians, what about intelligence?" Ohgi and Naoto both cursed under their breath, and I knew they immediately understood what I was getting at. "Yes, the gangs are likely Britannia's best resource when it comes to identifying and locating insurgent cells in the Ghetto. They have purchasable local knowledge and a complete lack of scruples. As long as the gangs remain in operation, we will never be safe and secure."


Ohgi gave a short, jerky nod to this. "Much as I hate to admit that our fellow Japanese could do such a thing... I believe your assessment is correct, Tanya." He grimaced, as if he'd bitten into something sour, but I thought I caught a hint of enthusiasm around his eyes. "We're going to have to do something about them before they do something about us, particularly whichever gang it was those men who were going after Kallen belonged to. They've already got a grievance against us, even if they don't know about it yet. If they ever figure out what happened, they'd definitely sell us out."


He could feign reluctance all he wanted, but I knew that Ohgi must have been disappointed to miss that little scrape. He hadn't gotten the opportunity to commit some easily justifiable violence, and now he was getting frustrated. I can't say I particularly liked working with such an unsavory individual, but he was both an intelligent man and the second in command. I'd welcome his support for my strategy, and be certain in his willingness to show no mercy to our fellow Elevens.


Tamaki grunted, and crossed his arms belligerently over his chest. "I get what you're sayin', Tanya, and it sounds pretty good, but... I dunno about giving the damned Brits a chance to breathe while we fight criminals, y'know?"


While his zeal for the fight was commendable, the problem with stubborn battle maniacs was always getting them to drop whichever bone they were gnawing when the situation changed. I tried to figure out how to cater to his specific emotional needs, but Naoto got the drop on me.


"Tamaki, do you remember the questions Tanya asked us last time we were here together?" His voice was quiet, but there was a steel to Naoto's tone. "She asked us if we were really trying to help the Japanese, or if we just wanted to build a new empire on top of them." Had I asked that? I didn't remember saying any such thing, but I didn't contradict Naoto. Publicly correcting your superiors was a fast way to never get promoted, and I was content being his cipher, if he wanted to put his words in my mouth. "You told us your answer then, but I think this is an opportunity to back up your words with deeds." He looked away from Tamaki, and at the rest of us. "Are we fighting for ourselves, or for others? Are we willing to sacrifice our own well-being and personal desires for the greater good of the Japanese people?"


"Fuck it, fine!" Tamaki slammed his fist on the table, drawing the focus of the attention back to himself. "I'd much rather curb-stomp some damned Brit bitch, but..." He heaved a sigh, and the flaring temper shrank back into a more controlled anger. "I want to help. I want to make things better for everybody, not just us." And then the cocky grin I remembered from our first meeting was back. "And hey, if I can show off how cool I am by beating up some thugs, maybe I'll impress a chick or three!"


While Inoue put Tamaki in a headlock and Nagata tried to convince her to let go of the grinning redhead, Naoto turned back to me and smiled. "Well, I think you've convinced us to change our game plan." His smile turned conspiratorial as he leaned in towards me. "Now, Tanya, that you've convinced us all that we should do what you want... Where do you think we should attack?"


Two days earlier, as I'd been working for a courier service in exchange for a bowl of nameless soup for dinner, I'd heard an interesting bit of gossip from a few men malingering around the entrance to a delivery location. While dickering over ersatz cigarettes, one of the men squatting outside the door where I'd stood waiting for the recipient had mentioned a particular address as the new location of his dealer's supplier. I'd made sure to take a route nearby the address the next day, and found that it was an abandoned restaurant with a suspicious amount of foot traffic. Even more suspicious was the bulky man with the squashed nose who'd been leaning against the wall of the next building over when I'd passed by in the morning, and who was still there when I went by again five hours later.


I proceeded to explain all this to Naoto, who beamed with approval. "Great job, Tanya! That sounds incredibly suspicious – definitely worth a look!" His boyish enthusiasm sent a spike of panic through me – I was still new, and I'd never seen Naoto lead in battle before; what if he thought he was an Alexander, and led from the front or some foolishness?! I hadn't thoroughly scouted the location out – what if he just decided to lead us all in some sort of heroic charge through their front door?


"Ah, sir, can I make another suggestion?" I ventured delicately, not wanting to puncture his good mood. Thankfully, it seemed like his expansive attitude was lingering for now. "Sure thing, Tanya! Whatcha got?" Perfect! This way, I could display my zealousness by volunteering for the scouting mission, which would both give me an opportunity to gather more information and give me the respect I needed to take a rear position during our attack without being thought a coward! "I'd like to take the opportunity to scout out the target location tonight." I smiled at him, making sure to display the dimples since that had worked so well on Ohgi. "'They wouldn't suspect a girl of being a scout, and I'm smaller and lighter. I'll poke around, find out how many guards there are and their locations, and report back to you."


Naoto looked like he was turning the idea over in his head, but before he could come to a decision Ohgi burst in. "Absolutely not!" I jerked back from the table, smile sliding off my face, completely nonplussed by the typically calm Ohgi acting so aggressively. "You are not sending a child alone into danger, Naoto. Bad enough that I gave her a gun, but sending her poking around a yakuza house without backup? Absolutely not." Ah, so that's his problem. He's feeling frustrated and left out! No doubt the prospect of drawing blood for the first time in days was driving Ohgi through the roof with frustration.


That was... suboptimal. Information gathering required a calm mind and a dispassionate willingness to remain detached and aloof, in order to bring back accurate and useful observations. A frothing axe maniac was a liability in such an operation. Still, though, bringing him with me had the benefit of giving me backup if the guards were actually competent, as well as currying favor with my superiors. I'd just have to suck it up and do my best fulfill the mission despite his presence.


"You can come too, Ohgi!" I took the initiative, figuring that a friendly invitation from me would interrupt any building hostility between Ohgi and Naoto resulting from their butting heads, not to mention aligning myself with Ohgi in the ongoing negotiations. "It's always wise to have someone watching your back when entering potentially dangerous situations, after all!"


For some reason, he didn't look any happier. Ohgi stalked out of the hideout when Naoto agreed to let both of us go scout the location before rushing out to track down the irate man. I hoped he'd find a way to get control of his blood lust before we had to go to work.


---------


Several hours later, Ohgi and I were ensconced in an abandoned office building across the street from the restaurant turned stash house and two floors up. I had found a pair of binoculars in the armory before we'd left, and I'd been using them to carefully examine every inch of the building's front face and the street outside. So far I'd found the same guard from a few days ago in the same position, although he'd found a different wall to slouch against. I'd also discovered that there were two guards immediately inside the building, lurking in what had once been the reception area, no doubt there to slow down any intruders while the serious muscle in the back rooms got ready.


Unfortunately, that was about all of use I'd determined about the target location after an hour of observation. Ohgi was getting restless, and if I was being honest, I was too. I lifted my face from the binoculars, and checked again that my telltale blonde hair was entirely tucked back under the scarf I'd tied around my head, which was in turn hidden under the hood of an over-sized sweatshirt. Finding it satisfactorily concealed, I carefully moved out of the window's sight profile, stood up and stretched, handing the binoculars to Ohgi. He nearly fumbled them, and I sighed internally. He must be tired if he's already sleeping on his feet.


"I'm going to take a quick walk around the block." I casually said as I checked my pistol, holstered under my sweatshirt, and my knife, a four inch long single sided affair which was tucked into the voluminous frontal pocket of the sweatshirt. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes."


Ohgi grunted with discontentment, but waved me out. I figured he just wanted the mission over with as quickly as possible, a desire I sympathized with, but neither of us could leave until we'd gotten a thorough look at the target.


I quickly scampered downstairs, moving as quietly as I could and dodging the dilapidated office furniture strewn about the place, abandoned for years and worthless as scrap or burnable fuel. We'd come in through a busted back door overlooking an old loading dock area that let out into an alley that had provided vehicle access to the office block in better days, and I was relatively sure that I'd seen a similar alley passing through the block where the stash house sat. I figured a single pass through that alley would be enough to get the bones of the situation, then I could report back to Ohgi and we could go home for the night. I'd just pretend to scrounge for edible garbage as I went down the alley, and nobody would so much as notice – after all, nobody had noticed me doing it before, and my obviously non-Japanese blonde hair had been fully visible then.


As I approached the mouth of the alley, I adjusted my gait and posture, stooping my back, hunching my shoulders, and taking only small cursory steps, doing my best to look as harmless and pitiful as possible. I did a bad job preparing for this mission. I berated myself internally as I scuttled into the shadows. I should've brought a sack of some sort to carry anything I find... Oh, and radios would have been wonderful too. To my annoyance, when I'd searched the armory before leaving the basement, I'd found the binoculars but I hadn't found any handheld radios, which meant I had no way of communicating with Ohgi. Hopefully, we could buy some better gear with whatever money we would steal when we hit this target, or we'd find some to appropriate ourselves.


While the alley proved empty of anything edible, I did discover a cluster of three men standing around what must have been the service entrance for the restaurant. Two appeared to be standard issue guards, as much as that was such a thing, wearing a variety of tattered layers and colored scarves tied around their upper arms. The third man, however, carried himself with authority and wore clothing that looked significantly better than the cast off wardrobes the other two had. They were talking about something... no, the authoritative man was rambling on about something and the other two were dutifully listening and chuckling where appropriate. I hunched down, doing my best to disappear into a small lump of nothing, and hoped that the light from the dim light fixture hanging above their heads had dampened their night vision as I listened in.


"...and that was the third time I tried crystal meth!" The apparent officer guffawed, and after a beat his subordinates dutifully chuckled. Minus the context, I felt like I was back in some bar after work once more, listening to the same tedious anecdotes from the old men at the top, and had to quash the impulse to chuckle in chorus with the two guards. Shaking off the odd flash of something almost like muscle memory, I continued listening to the more richly dressed man regal his captive audience with another two anecdotes before finally saying something interesting. "Anyway, old man Ryuji thinks that the boys from Kokuryu-kai have learned about this location, somehow. It's a pain in the ass since we just finished setting up here, I know, but we gotta get everything packed back up again. The truck's gonna be here in..." He checked his watch, and visibly winced. "Ten minutes! So tell Kohta to get his shit together to move!"


One of the guards hastily ran inside, followed by the officer himself, leaving the last man alone outside in the cold. Once the door closed, he murmured a curse, but dutifully took up his guard position by the door again. For my part, I did my best to make myself invisible, lying down in a slight dip in the ground by the side of the pavement that might have been a gutter and trying to press myself into the pavement. I knew the fifteen minutes I'd told Ohgi I'd be out for were likely already gone, but I didn't think I could make it back to the office building to let him know what I'd found out and back in the ten minutes the officer had allotted. If I started running around the chances one of these idiots would notice me would also increase, which would lead to either them trying to kill me, or an even faster evacuation of everything worth taking.


Either way, that would be a failed mission, and I wasn't willing to let my first mission in my new job fail so unceremoniously. The taint of screwing up like that, of being so unsure of my partner and of my own judgment that I blew the mission checking up on him, would be absolute poison to my chances at a managerial role in the new Stadtfeld regime.


Five minutes later, and a dingy panel truck pulled up. The battered vehicle proclaimed it as a delivery vehicle for the "Happy Clam Fishmonger", but the men who stepped out looked entirely too well-dressed to be fishmongers. Both of the newcomers walked over to the guard, and then all three entered the restaurant, leaving the truck unattended. Apparently, they had decided that either nobody was here in this particular corner of Shinjuku at two in the morning, or that nobody here would be willing to steal a truck from a clear criminal operation. They were partially correct in their assessment.


Thirty seconds later, I was climbing through the unlocked driver's side door. The men had taken the keys when they'd left, but had left the truck unlocked and the lights on, presumably to aid in the rapid evacuation of the contents of the building. I was fine with that – I had no interest in stealing an empty truck, after all. Thanks to their sloppy discipline, I didn't have to try hanging onto the roof of the vehicle or anything fancy like that – instead, I folded myself down into the narrow gap behind the passenger-side seat and the rear of the cab. I doubt many other people could manage the fit, and even I had to take off my bulky sweatshirt and pistol and stash them behind the driver's side. Only my four foot three inch, forty-eight pound frame let me slide myself into the narrow gap, my knife tightly clasped in my left hand.


Now, there was nothing to do but wait and see...


A bare two minutes after I'd finished concealing myself behind the seat, I heard the sounds of movement outside, followed by twenty minutes of what sounded like very hard work. Idly, I wondered what sort of benefits gang membership had in this fallen Japan – was it just three squares and a bed, or did they get a cut of the proceeds? – before two men climbed back into the truck. Two tries at ignition later, we were on our way to some other no-doubt desolate corner of the Ghetto.


I waited until five minutes of movement had passed before I made my move, to give time for the truck to move out of sight of whichever gangsters had stayed behind. Carefully, I spun up my reflex and strength enhancement suite, taking care not to so much as twitch as the familiar rush of magic rushed through my body. As soon as I was sure my enhancements were working, I began to carefully snake my left arm out and around the side of the passenger chair, knife in hand. Thankfully, the lack of interior cabin lighting or much in the way of functional streetlights meant that the driver didn't see my arm in the left side mirror, and neither did the passenger notice reflected movement in his door window.


As soon as my forearm was free of the crack and my hand was angled upwards, I flexed my magically-enhanced strength and thrust. I'd carefully judged the angle, and the knife entered through the side of his neck towards the back, stabbing in and through his trachea. I continued the arc of the blade by slashing out and to the left, slicing through the left side of his neck and severing the left jugular vein and carotid artery as it did so.


Not wasting a moment, as soon as the knife was clear of his neck, I whipped my now bloodied left arm back through the crack into the space behind the chair, quickly passing the knife off to my other hand.


The punctured windpipe prevented the passenger from communicating anything to his compatriot, but the desperate, panicked thrashing coupled with the arterial spurt clued the driver in that something was amiss. "Junji?! Junji, man, what's wrong? Junji?" Fortunately, the driver parked the truck before reaching over to grab his friend in the time honored practices of shaking the injured on the off-chance that it improves their condition.


Before he'd even managed to grasp his friend's shoulder, though, I lunged out from behind the seat, pouring every iota of magical strength into a single thrust. The blade, guided by training and enhanced reflexes, slammed home just below his left armpit, buried to the hilt in his side. To my embarrassment, instead of going between the ribs as I had intended, the blade had actually slammed through his rib, my strength somehow sufficient to fracture the bone. Fortunately, this meant that instead of a single blade probing for his heart and lung, I had managed to drive three into his thoracic cavity.


As soon as the last spasms faded from the former driver's hand, I hauled myself out from my hiding place and into the gap between the two chairs. With a significant amount of effort, I managed to maneuver and brute force the driver's body onto the unfortunate Junji, before shoving him down into the feet area to prevent him from slouching over onto the clutch. Then, I retrieved my sweatshirt and gun from the gap behind the driver's seat, and pulled my layer back on – it was cold outside, and both of my arms were now completely soaked. Finally, I took a deep breath, and allowed myself a smile – by dint of much patience and effort, I was now the undisputed master of this truck.


My smile faded quickly as I realized that I had no idea how to drive the vehicle. I'd had a driver's license in my first life, but I'd almost exclusively used the rail in my adult life and the vehicle I'd learned how to drive so long ago had been a mere sedan. I was the master of this truck, but I had no idea how to move the damned thing.


Fortunately, the driver hadn't been moving too quickly, so I wasn't too far away from where I'd left Ohgi. I'd been sure to turn off the truck's lights and take the keys with me, but I wanted to hurry back as quickly as possible. I doubted anybody would be foolish enough to steal a truck with two dead bodies in the cab, but the contents of the cargo compartment were another story. Happily, when I found him pacing anxiously outside the office building, Ohgi was too anxious to see what we'd found to require much convincing to follow me.


Admittedly, he did delay us somewhat by exclaiming his relief that I'd returned unharmed, and asking where I'd been and whose blood I was covered in, but after I explained the urgency of our situation he came along quickly enough.


It turned out that Ohgi had a basic understanding of how to operate trucks, and so after he helped me shove the bodies out of the vehicle and carry them into a nearby alley, we managed to slowly drive the vehicle back to our hideout.


By the time we finally reached the area where our little sub-basement headquarters was located, the first light of dawn was already reaching across the horizon. On the way over, Ohgi and I had briefly tried to figure out whether or not to keep the truck, and where to stash it if so. Eventually, we concluded that we did indeed need to keep the truck, at least until we'd offloaded the cargo. Apparently, there was a small parking lot attached to the crumbling apartment block, which had a few spots which were not filled with derelicts or rubble, but it offered no real cover to hide the truck away under. So, after Ohgi parked the truck, I volunteered to stay with it as he ran down to the hideout to grab a pair of bolt cutters and whoever was there, and get them to haul the contents of the cargo compartment down into the basement.


A few minutes and some muttered curses as the lock stubbornly resisted the shearing force of the instrument later, and the truck's cargo hold was open. Unfortunately for the eager Tamaki, we didn't get the opportunity to immediately learn what we'd managed to plunder from the yakuza, as everything was surprisingly neatly packed in a variety of cardboard and wooden boxes. Happily this made the process of hauling them down two flights of stairs far more efficient than hauling armfuls of miscellaneous goods would have been, and in an hour Tamaki, Naoto, and Ohgi had managed to haul our liberated cartons away into the hideout. I'd offered to help, but Ohgi had strenuously and repeatedly denied my efforts, pointing out that I'd done the vast majority of the work during the scouting mission turned impromptu raid. I graciously conceded the point, as my enhancements had begun to flag from physical exhaustion.


I wasn't too exhausted to follow Tamaki and Naoto back downstairs to the hideout, though. I knew there would be no chance of sleep until I'd managed to sooth my curiosity about what we'd accomplished. Ohgi had volunteered to take care of the vehicle, and had left with a pair of Naoto's black market hand grenades and the truck. I hoped that would be adequate to erase whatever forensic evidence we'd left behind, but ultimately decided to not worry about it and trust my comrade. I was certain that a battle maniac denied the ability to slake his bloodlust but given the freedom to demolish a valuable piece of equipment would have no difficulty converting a perfectly usable truck into a burnt out husk.


As I stood in the sub-basement, swaying on my feet, Naoto and Tamaki opened box after box, using a crowbar to pry open wooden slats where necessary. The first few boxes contained an abundance of large unlabeled brown bottles that clearly contained homebrewed liquor. Two of the wooden boxes contained a variety of laboratory equipment as well as a number of sealed jars, phials, and bottles, all unlabeled except for a number written somewhere on them – a sequential order, perhaps? The smallest cardboard box, lined with plastic, indicated the likely use of the lab equipment, as it contained 45 kilograms of what Tamaki identified as crystal methamphetamine. The final cardboard box was just full of Britannian cash, an entire box of bundles of various denominations of bills, all grubby and showing signs of heavy use. The final wooden box, the largest of the entire haul, contained five brand new Britannian assault rifles, still in their packing materials. No ammunition, though.


Well, it was a decidedly mixed haul, but I could already see all kinds of potential uses for everything we'd found. The cash would be the most helpful, I decided, and the lab equipment had potential if we found someone with the requisite expertise to use it. The meth, however...


"Naoto," I began, "how do you feel about selling amphetamines to the Britannians?"

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 6: A Living Tragedy (Kozuki Sibling Interlude)

(AN: For people only reading the threadmarks and not the thread, when I initially posted Chapter 5 I left off the last page of content. I've since edited it back in, and put an apostrophe to mark where the new content begins. Thank you to Siatru for beta reading this chapter.)


Kozuki Naoto took a long pull from the unlabeled bottle in his hand, and winced at the liquid fire running down the back of his throat. His eyes watered from the pain and the fumes, but his long experience made ignoring the burn trivial. Wish everything else was that easy to tune out. He carefully wiped the mouth of the bottle off on his sleeve and handed to his best friend, Kaname Ohgi. Both men were squatting on their haunches on the roof of their crumbling apartment building, cigarette in one hand and passing one of the many bottles of homebrew liquor their little band of terrorists had acquired earlier that night back and forth with the other. Naoto had known Ohgi for years, ever since their first year of senior high school, and he'd always known the other man to be a sober, dependably straight-laced individual, given to introspection and quiet humor.


Which would have made the long, long slug Ohgi took from the bottle disturbing to Naoto almost any other night. Such an uninhibited and downright greedy chug of hard liquor straight from the bottle would normally indicate some sort of deep concern or anxiety on his friend's part, and ordinarily Naoto would have done his best to suss out what was troubling his best friend.


Not tonight. He knew exactly what was troubling Ohgi. Naoto shuddered as he remembered what he'd seen, and took a long drag from the roll-up. Yes, he knew what was bothering Ohgi, and he wouldn't begrudge him a single drop of liquid comfort tonight.


About five hours after he and Tanya, their newest, most disturbing recruit, had left to scout out the possible stash-house, Ohgi had burst through the door of their sub-basement hideout, startling Naoto and Tamaki to instant wakefulness from their snoozing on the couches. As quickly as he could, Ohgi had briefed the two of them about the night's events, from their unproductive stakeout to Tanya's sudden return to their observation point an hour after she'd left on a fifteen minute walk, dripping with blood and utterly nonchalant. He'd concluded by saying he'd left Tanya outside guarding a truck full of unknown goods, a truck that she had brutally slain two men to hijack.


Naoto had been, to say the least, very confused. Tanya and Ohgi had left on a simple scouting and information gathering mission, but apparently the mission had rapidly evolved while they'd been out. Ohgi had grabbed a pair of bolt cutters and led him and Tamaki out to the rubble-strewn parking lot of the ruined apartment block they hid under, and sure enough, a battered truck was waiting for them. Beside that truck...


Naoto shuddered again at the memory, and gestured at Ohgi to hand the bottle back. His friend wiped the bottle clean and duly obliged, and Naoto took another hit from the horrible moonshine. He knew he'd regret it come the morning, but he wanted the memory of the tiny figure softened into a comfortable blur as quickly as possible.


Tanya had stood beside the truck, practically swimming in an oversized black sweatshirt and a battered and cut-down pair of men's work pants. The scarf she'd wrapped around her head to conceal her sunny blonde hair had loosened during her busy night, and a thick lock of hair hung freely over her eyes, as if to emphasize her youth. Below that errant lock were a wide smile of satisfaction, pride at a job well and skillfully done clear in every line of her face, and a pair of haunting blue eyes. Naoto had seen lots of empty-eye'd gazes after the Conquest, people broken from shock and trauma, hollowed out inside and mere shells of the passionate men and women and children they'd once been. Tanya's eyes were not hollow, nor empty, nor flat. Instead, there was a sort of mixture of childish and adult characteristics he found very hard to pin down, as if those eyes were some sort of estuary between the innocent, bright emotions of a child and the ancient wisdom of someone who had lived too long and seen too much.


Naoto drank, and counted himself lucky he had never seen a pair of eyes like that before. He knew that he came from a position of rare privilege for a Japanese man in this Britannian-dominated world, the bastard son of one of the few nobles who was a legitimately good man, who loved his children and cared for their mother despite her current state. Even before Lord Stadtfeld had welcomed his daughter and her mother back into the fold by adopting the former as his legitimate heir and employing the later as his maid, his father had sent enough money to let them live in one of the lower rent areas of the Britannian Concession, designated for common Britannians. True, Naoto had had to fist-fight virtually every young or middle-aged Brit man in the neighborhood, and some of the women, to live there without trouble, and he'd had to fight whole gangs of Brits who tried to attack his little sister on two notable occasions, but he was still very aware that he'd been lucky.


He'd never had to live in the Ghetto. He'd come here by choice, reconnecting with his college friends, meeting Ohgi's former co-workers, and bringing weapons and ammunition purchased in the Britannian homeland along with his eager desire to see Britannia brought down. His first month in the Ghetto had been an education, to say the least. He knew, of course, about the broad strokes of the Britannian occupation, of the brutal policies of the Area administration, but... He hadn't known, not on the level that only first-hand experience could teach.


And even then, he'd still been lucky. He had come to the Ghetto as a man, young and strong, with a gun at his belt and thick muscles on his body. He hadn't been forced into the Ghetto as a child, marked out as different and alien by her hair and eyes, forced to work long hours for years to keep herself fed, and hadn't grown up with the humiliations and violations of the occupation a daily reality. He thanked his lucky stars, his father, and any gods who existed that he hadn't lived like that every time he saw Tanya.


She'd been literally dripping with blood, her arms up to the shoulder wet with the stuff, and clearly exhausted, but Tanya still smiled. Her frail body, sharp cheek bones and too thin arms, trembled with exhaustion, but she'd still been energetic enough to offer to help carry the multitude of heavy boxes from the truck down the two flights of stairs to the basement. Still groggy with sleep, Naoto hadn't been able to say a word to the vision of murdered innocence before him, but Ohgi, with a surprisingly gentle voice after his near panic in the basement, had gratefully but firmly turned down her kind offer. He'd said she'd done enough that night, that he hadn't done his fair share of the work on their mission, so she could take a break while they carried the spoils down into the basement. Apparently, Ohgi's instincts as a teacher had served him well, as she'd accepted this line of logic and stood aside as they carried box after box down to the hideout.


After they'd unloaded the truck, Ohgi had volunteered to dispose of it, taking two grenades with him and advising Naoto to keep a careful eye on Tanya. He'd followed his friend's advise as he and Ohgi opened the various boxes, noting the girl's reaction out of the corner of his eye to see what she thought of the spoils of war. She'd been ambivalent towards the moonshine, interested in the lab equipment and materials, calculating when Tamaki had identified the meth, and at first very interested and then dismissive of the rifles. Naoto hadn't been surprised by the first and last reactions, considering how new firearms generally didn't come with ammunition to make them a complete weapon system, but her interest in the lab equipment caught him by surprise. As far as he knew, she was an essentially uneducated street urchin. He didn't know if she even knew what the various flasks and beakers were for, but something about them had clearly caught her interest.


Her immediate question, "Naoto, how do you feel about selling amphetamines to the Britannians?" had come as a shock. He'd already abandoned any attempt to try and predict what fresh, brilliant insanity would emerge from Tanya's mouth, but her suggestion of trying to hook their overlords on hard drugs was inspired and unexpected, as most of her suggestions were. He'd fobbed her off by saying he'd have to think about it, and she'd nodded and muttered something about logistics to his great relief. Naoto was determined to free Japan from the leprous hand of Britannia, but he didn't know if he could endorse selling hard drugs to their enemies for that cause. Setting aside questions of efficacy – smuggling amphetamines into the Concession was no small task, nor was finding buyers or figuring out how to convert their looted supply into a more permanent operation – Naoto was having a hard time convincing himself that the world would be a better place for their actions if they stooped to that level. As far as he was concerned, all 45 kilograms of crystal could catch fire, and he'd be happy.


Of course, he hadn't shared these thoughts with Tanya, and thankfully she hadn't asked. Instead, she'd simply made her way over to the couches, laid down in an uncharacteristically casual display, and immediately fallen asleep. Tamaki and he had quietly laughed to each other about the "lion sleeping off a meal", but he'd known Tamaki long enough to hear the hollow joy for what it was. They'd continued to work in as much quiet as possible, finding places to store their new rifles, the box of cash, and the lab equipment in the armory/storage area of the hideout.


Two hours later, Ohgi had returned from his errand. He'd apparently driven the truck west, towards the edge of the Shinjuku Ghetto and Nakano, before parking it on a sufficiently abandoned street, rolling the two grenades under the cab, and running like hell. He'd looked back to see the truck on its side and smoking, and had kept running for another mile before walking the rest of the way back to Shinjuku and the hideout. Naoto vaguely hoped that nobody had been hurt by the grenade's shrapnel, but he was just honestly glad to have seen the last of that blood-drenched truck cab. He couldn't imagine how awful it must have been for Ohgi, perched awkwardly on a seat practically saturated with drying blood, doing his best to ignore the scent of shit that had lingered even after the corpses Tanya had produced had been dumped unceremoniously in an alley.


Wordlessly, Naoto passed the bottle back to Ohgi. He'd forgotten to wipe the bottle off this time, but his friend apparently didn't care.


Tanya was still asleep when they decided to call it a night, and neither he nor Ohgi had the heart to wake her up. When she slept, she looked so... different, so innocent and vulnerable. When awake, Tanya was an enthusiastic ball of energy and suggestions one moment, a haunting vision of the human cost of war in another, a paranoid and twitchy ball of nerves in a third, and a terrifyingly efficient fighting machine in the next. But asleep, she just looked... like a kid, and a good one at that. Her face relaxed into a peaceful smile, which almost made you overlook the hollows of her cheeks and how each bone in her hands stood out against the skin. Naoto was happy to see that the hollows were a bit less deep than when Ohgi had first brought her back to their apartment, but she still looked so fragile.


After waiting a bit to see if she'd wake back up, they'd had a short discussion, and they decided it would be bad if she woke up alone in a strange place after such a violent and potentially traumatic experience. Ohgi had carefully scooped the girl up and begun carrying her up the stairs. She'd sleepily protested for a moment, before drifting back off again. She hadn't woken back up during the long walk back home, even after being passed back and forth three times, and hadn't woken when they'd put her down in the nest of blankets she'd assembled in the corner of their studio, head on the single ratty pillow Ohgi had managed to barter from Mrs. Maki two doors down. Tanya still wore her mission clothes, now crusted with dried blood, but neither man had wanted to try washing or changing her, so they'd simply left her on her nest of blankets before heading up to the roof to try and drink away the stress of another night in Shinjuku.


Ohgi put the bottle down on the roof between them, and turned towards Naoto. Shit, here it comes. Naoto had hoped they could just drink themselves silly in silence, but he'd know this was coming.


"There's something very wrong with that girl, Naoto." The former teacher's voice was quiet but firm in the morning light, and Naoto groaned aloud.


"What else is new?" Naoto sighed and took another drag on the coffin nail. "We've already been over this, Ohgi. You're right, she's all kinds of fucked up. I'm not disagreeing with you here." He ground the stub of the roll-up out on the roof, and flicked the butt away. "Problem is, you and I both know she's way too dangerous to let wander around on her own. When we took her in, we took responsibility for her – and that means we can't just kick her out because she's..." Ugh, how the hell do I sum up Hajime Tanya in a single adjective? "...Because she's her." Naoto finished lamely, blaming drinking moonshine on an empty stomach for the sudden lack of eloquence.


"I know that, dammit!" Ohgi's voice lacked anger, but was full of pent-up frustration and shame. "I know that it's not her fault she is the way she is. It's not her fault she's so scary I almost piss myself every time she looks at me. I know, god dammit, but Naoto... We can't let her just... just..."


Naoto suddenly felt much older than his twenty six, almost twenty seven years. "She saved Kallen's life, Ohgi. I can't ignore that. Who knows what the hell would've happened to her, if Tanya hadn't been armed and found her in time?" He shivered, and thrust the horrible images his mind produced away as hard as he could. "Plus, she's finally managed to get Tamaki to stop goofing around for five minutes and take things seriously."


"She's still a child soldier, Naoto. I can't ignore that" Ohgi looked up, away from Naoto and into the sky. "I know she saved your sister. I know she's an absolutely terrifying fighter. I know she even slapped some sense into Tamaki." He looked back down, and met Naoto's eyes again. "She's still a child, and children shouldn't be sent into war. I'm sorry, but it's wrong. She's eleven, Naoto! Eleven!" Ohgi took a deep breath, and looked away again, trying to calm down.


Naoto took a deep breath too, and tried his best to keep his cool. "I don't like it any more than you do, Ohgi. But, what do you think I should do?" Naoto shook his head with irritation, his words sounding weak even to him. "I mean, we've tried to get her to act more her age. We've tried to keep her out of harm's way. It hasn't really been working out so far, has it, Ohgi?"


After Ohgi had first brought Tanya back to their apartment after she'd been kicked out of her deceased mother's apartment, she'd immediately begun acting paranoid. She'd almost attacked Naoto when he'd first arrived for no reason he could determine, and when Ohgi had tried to feed her, despite their assurances that she could eat as much as she wanted, she'd barely taken a few bites. After that rocky start, she'd taken to disappearing during most of the daylight hours, saying something about earning her keep, and none of Ohgi's attempts to convince her that she was welcome to their food seemed to sink in.


Naoto had been convinced by Tanya's passionate argument to bring her into the cell, unable to argue with her point that she was "old enough to be put up against a wall and shot" and thus old enough to try and fight back. He'd intended for her to help out in a non-combat role, perhaps helping Inoue secure supplies, or helping apply basic first-aid and running messages. Essentially, Naoto had figured that she could be given some necessary but not dangerous tasks, and could be the mascot and morale officer for the fledgling guerrilla organization. That idea hadn't survived the near disaster of Tanya's first meeting with the other members of the cell, when Tamaki had flown off the handle and pulled a gun on the girl. Worse yet, Naoto and Ohgi had been completely helpless, unable to deescalate the situation and too far from Tamaki to take the gun away from him before he could pull the trigger. To their mixed thankfulness and horror, their intervention had proven unnecessary, as the half-blooded waif they'd inadvertently put in a near-death situation had first forced Tamaki into submission and then taken away his gun without any discernible effort. It was an outright miracle that things had ended without at least one death, but her abilities had been as frighteningly mysterious as they'd been baffling.


Ohgi had succumbed to guilt within a week after the disastrous meeting, unable to withstand both his own shame at almost getting a child killed by an unpredictable and violent friend of his and the brutally effective guilt-trip the child in question had deployed. Very much against his better judgment, Ohgi had armed Tanya with a standard Britannian sidearm and taken time out of his days to walk with her to the hideout so she could practice with it once she'd demonstrated her clear proficiency with the damned thing. Each time they'd returned from the hideout, Ohgi had come up to the roof, beer in hand, and talked endlessly about how horribly unnatural it was to see a school-aged child coolly and professionally servicing targets with her pistol, never missing the bullseye. Within a week, she'd been a better shot than any other member of the cell, at least when it came to paper targets.


Tanya had proven that she could shoot at other targets without qualm soon after, when she'd saved his baby sister's life. Naoto had been twelve when Kallen was born, and after their father had left Japan to return to the homeland after the Conquest, he'd taken over many parental duties as their mother increasingly fell to pieces. Kallen's private description of the encounter had been somewhat vague, and lacked many of the specific details Tanya had included in her verbal report, but his sister had clearly remembered how calm and unemotional Tanya had been after the fight and during the process of hiding the bodies in an alley. The image of his sister hauling bodies made Naoto sick to his stomach, and the idea of a girl four years her junior helping her with the other end of the corpses made it even worse. He took heart from the details that Kallen had shared about their conversation afterwards, including Tanya's dream of going back to school, and that she'd tried to make Kallen feel better when his sister had begun to feel the full impact of taking a human life, but the whole incident still made him sick with worry and grief.


"You're right." Ohgi bitterly sighed out the admission. "We can't keep her from fighting. She's made that abundantly clear yesterday and tonight." The former teacher cocked his head, and looked quizzically at Naoto. "Do you realize that she nearly usurped leadership of the cell from you yesterday? In ten minutes, she totally reoriented our cell's strategic focus for the foreseeable future, and gave everybody there a stake in the idea she's selling."


Naoto grimaced. "Of course I realize that. And yes, it does feel galling to have an eleven-year old prove she's a far better planner then you are." He took a moment and ruthlessly squashed the rising sense of irritation down again. "I'm not proud enough to hold on to a bad plan just because I made it, Ohgi. If she's got good ideas, I'm going to use them. I'd have to be completely stupid to just make her shut up, and I don't think she would if I tried to order her to do so." He groaned and rubbed at his forehead at the memory of Tanya, bright-eyed and enthusiastic, cheerfully burbling out all the various short and long term benefits of her new grand plan. In that moment, she'd reminded him so much of a much younger Kallen from before the Conquest, showing off a picture she'd drawn to their mother.


Ohgi patted him on the back sympathetically. "That's the hell of it, isn't it?" Ohgi said philosophically, "She's so good at everything she's tried so far, and so determined to fight the good fight that it would be practically criminal not to use her. But she's still a child soldier, and sending a child to war is evil, Naoto. It's evil, and we both know it's evil." Ohgi picked the bottle back up and took another swig. "Tanya is a better shot than I am, and I bet she's a better killer too. I mean, before she came, our cell had maybe three deaths on its hands, right?"


"Four," corrected Naoto. "after that guy saw Tamaki trying to break into that warehouse. I heard in the news he actually died in the hospital a few hours after we legged it."


Ohgi nodded. "Four then. And that's in three months of operations. Tanya has killed at least five people that we know of in just the last week." Both men fell silent for a moment at the implication before Ohgi continued more softly. "I know she's an asset, but she's just a kid. I don't want to have to bury her someday. I understand her point about being old enough to die, but... Well, what are we fighting for, if not to stop having kids get shot at all?"


Naoto shrugged. He was tired and drunk, and it was hard to be particularly philosophical. "I just know that she saved Kallen's life, Ohgi. I don't like letting her fight any more than you do, but I'm not going to try to make her stop now. She's earned the right to stand with us, even if it does leave a bad taste in my mouth." Naoto smiled and chuckled to himself. "At least they each made a friend, judging by the way Kallen was talking about Tanya. It's good to hear her being so happy and enthusiastic after..."


Ohgi wordlessly passed the bottle back, and Naoto drank. "Plus, she's finally stopped badgering me to let her go on missions with us." Ohgi let out a bark of laughter at that. "You don't seriously think that's going to last, do you?" Naoto laughed too, before sighing wistfully. "Well... No, but I'm glad that Tanya gave her something else to focus on instead."


A minute of silence passed, until Naoto stood from his squat and began to walk around the roof, trying to get the blood to flow back into his legs. After a moment, Ohgi stood up and joined him. "Naoto, what are we going to do? She's literally got blood on her hands at this very moment, and you can't think that's the last of it. Are we really going to use a little girl as a soldier in our war to free Japan?"


Naoto sighed, and turned back to his best friend. "Yes, Ohgi, yes we are. I don't think we have much of a choice in the matter – we're not going to convince her to stop fighting, and we're not exactly swimming in highly-skilled recruits to replace her with." Naoto felt shame at the admission wash over him, and had a hard time maintaining eye contact with Ohgi. "I suppose this is part of the sacrifice she talked about, isn't it? Whether we could put the good of all over personal desires and all that? Neither of us want her to fight, but she's clearly dedicated to the cause."


Ohgi grimaced again, and Naoto saw the same guilt and horror in Ohgi's expression that he was sure his friend saw on his. "You're right, she's going to fight no matter what we say or do. Last night she basically just abandoned me for an hour, and came back asking if I could drive a truck. She was just covered in blood, but didn't appear to notice or care. And this time, she'd killed those poor bastards with a knife, not even with her gun." He shivered, and continued. "I've already been having nightmares about her, you know. This isn't going to help them... I don't even know if I'm afraid of her, or just what she represents."


Naoto nodded in understanding. "Tanya's definitely a loose cannon. I think she just tolerates any orders I give to her, but... Well, at least she's humoring me so far and being a good girl. And... I get it, I think. She's been a victim for years since the Conquest, right? Based on what she's seen, she's seen some really fucked up stuff, and she couldn't do anything about it. And now, she's finally got the opportunity to do something, to be the one hurting other people rather than being hurt."


Ohgi agreed. "Yeah, that definitely sounds right. It sounds exactly like why kids bully each other – they feel weak and powerless, and they want to fix that by proving they aren't." Ohgi sighed, and idly kicked at the roof. "But to her credit, she could be targeting other Japanese if she wanted that. I'm glad she's decided to target the people actually responsible for what she's endured."


"You know, I always wanted to work as a teacher. I enjoyed working with kids, and it felt great to see them understand what I was explaining to them. It felt like I was helping to build a better world, y'know?" Naoto nodded silently, remembering how enthusiastic Ohgi had been when he'd graduated from university and become an assistant math teacher at a junior high school. "It's been really hard to even help tutor little Kyoko and littler Takahiro since she showed up. I keep wondering if when I look up from the textbook, if they'll have the same eyes as Tanya... I've never been scared of kids before Naoto, but I keep getting twitchy just being around them now."


Naoto clapped his friend on the back companionably. "C'mon, snap out of it Ohgi. You're getting too far into your head about this. Kyoko and Takahiro have both their parents, enough food, and are both full Japanese. They're nothing like Tanya."


Ohgi sighed and hung his head. "I know, I know, it's just... Tanya doesn't even look or act like Tanya sometimes, y'know? Like when Tamaki was showing her how the pistol worked, she looked just like one of my favorite students from back then. Same eager expression, same thirst for knowledge... Only Chihiro thought geometry was really cool, while Tanya fell in love with a damned weapon... It just makes me wonder how many other kids are going to pick up a gun too before this is over, you know? Tanya is one thing, but what if something happens to Mrs. Maki, and Takahiro asks to join us because he wants revenge? How many children is too much of a sacrifice for a free Japan, Naoto?"


Naoto found to his shame that he couldn't immediately answer the question, and wondered himself what the end of the war, if it ever came, would look like.


---------


Kallen quietly sat in her third-period Algebra class, dutifully taking notes on polynomial functions from the second row. Unlike her usual behavior at the start of the year, she no longer sat in the back of the classroom, and no longer hunched down over her papers, trying to be as invisible as possible. Instead, she sat with her back straight and shoulders back, posture as picture perfect as any etiquette instructor might hope to see. The changes in her school life didn't stop with a new seat and a straight back, though. The day after her encounter in the slums, she had informed the Ashford Academy administration that she was feeling much better, and her doctor was enthusiastic about her condition, meaning she wouldn't be missing as much school as they'd feared.


She still hated the shallow, self-absorbed noble brats that surrounded her, but Kallen's whole understanding of her hatred had radically shifted overnight. Instead of being a reason to avoid the inbred bastards and to skip out on school as often as possible, her hatred was her burden to carry. Being pleasant and sociable with those she held in contempt was the sacrifice she was making for Japan. It wasn't a particularly weighty sacrifice, Kallen knew, not compared to the men and women dying in the Ghetto as her teacher droned on and on, but it was one that she was uniquely placed to make.


Kallen wouldn't let an opportunity to strike a blow against the hated Britannians slip past her. Pointing out the amount of damage she could do to the rich bastards who bought and sold her people's future was the second great gift her newest and only friend had given her, the first being her continued existence. Tanya had been there when Kallen had needed her, both when she was against that wall and when the image of a gaping mouth with a throat full of blood, desperate eyes bugging out as he tried to breathe through a ruined windpipe had become too much to bear. Instead of mocking her weakness, Tanya had reassured her, told her that she was strong, and had revealed her own personal trauma and weakness to set them back on equal footing. And Tanya had given her a purpose, a way to fight back that her brother wouldn't hold her back from.


Ever since that day in Shinjuku, Kallen had begun to integrate herself into the school's social scene, joining a conversation here or there, agreeing to a minor social engagement now and then. A tea party on Thursday, tennis on Saturday, and so on and so forth. Her earlier unsociable behavior was quickly excused as the result of her never specified illness, and she'd effortlessly slipped into a role as an outer member in several cliques and groups, rarely finding herself alone at the Academy. Kallen generally said little, only offering expressions of interest in the latest gossip and goings-on and ruthlessly keeping her seething anger and contempt hidden.


Kallen had begun to memorize any gossip she heard in the halls, and would write it down into her class notes as the lectures rambled on. After school, she'd review her notes and copy the gossip items out into a special notebook she'd begun to compile. She hadn't heard anything particularly useful yet – no troop movements or schemes to start harvesting the organs of Japanese prisoners had been bandied about in her hearing, not yet – but she had begun to create profiles of her classmates, adding details about their backgrounds and social connections from the gossip she collected. Slowly, Kallen had begun to understand the complex social network that spanned the student body, and the many ties major and minor between the disparate members. At first she had focused her information gathering efforts on the obvious targets – children of titled nobility, ranking military and government officials, and of important corporate figures – but gradually she'd begun to focus instead on the people that they talked to, their friends and acquaintances, the second tier of the social hierarchy. These students, Kallen had reasoned, would be less invested in hiding whatever secrets they had learned from or about their social superiors, and so would be more likely to spill the beans.


The Algebra class finally came to a merciful end, and Kallen efficiently packed away her school things, making sure to keep her ears open as the class's forced silence exploded in a pent-up burst of conversation and chatter. Kallen didn't linger too long, not wanting her eavesdropping to be too obvious, and slowly made her way out of the classroom, joining the ebb and flow of students in the sumptuous halls of Ashford Academy. The place was richly decorated to the point of rococo gaudiness, but Kallen ignored the furnishings, even as she raged internally at the resources invested in gilding alone that could have been used to feed her people. As a daughter and heir of a noble house, however minor, Kallen was expected to be accustomed to the omnipresent decadent luxury surrounding her, and so she sank into her role.


As she made her way through the hallway, Kallen let a light smile touch her face, making a point to meet the eyes of everybody she could, doing her best to look as approachable as possible. She responded to the greetings of a knot of girls here, a handsome boy there, smiling and listening to what each had to say, complimenting each on their insight and intelligence as she drifted towards her next class.


Suddenly, an arm snaked around her shoulder and pulled her into a casual hug as an enthusiastic greeting was practically shouted into her ear. Kallen practically jumped out of her skin at the shock at the sudden, unexpected touch, and her hand was halfway to the concealed knife in her uniform jacket pocket before she realized she wasn't under attack. Instead of the red blood staining an already filthy white t-shirt, blankly staring eyes looking into hers until Tanya kicked trash over them attackers she half-expected, Kallen found the broadly grinning face of Milly Ashford three inches from her own, and belatedly summoned her "socialite smile" as quickly as she could.


"Kallen! It's so good to finally meet you in person!" The granddaughter of the Academy's principal and director had a broad, vulpine smile across her face, and her eyes glittered with enthusiasm and humor. "I'm Milly, but you probably know that already, huh? Welcome to Ashford Academy!"


"Oh, thank you! It's so good to finally meet you!" Kallen artlessly babbled back, doing her best to look as wide-eyed and innocent as possible. "Cafe Day was really fun! I wish I'd been feeling good enough to participate..."


Cafe Day had been the first of the infamous Milly events that periodically swept the school that Kallen had witnessed. Milly had abruptly declared the cafeteria the "Cafe Ashford" and forced her puppets on the School Council and whoever else had the misfortune to draw her attention to be the waitstaff and baristas at this cafe. Allegedly, the funds raised had been gone to an unspecified "good cause", but based on everything Kallen knew about the smirking blonde, she had her doubts about that.


"I'm happy to hear about your recovery, Lady Stadtfeld." Somehow, Milly's smile grew even more impish. "It'd be such a waste of a pretty young girl to be stuck at home in bed all day long."


Kallen shuddered internally at the lecherous glint in the older girl's eyes, but pressed on with her wide-eyed innocent act. "Absolutely! It's so good to finally feel like my old self again!" Suddenly, Kallen remembered that she hadn't told Milly about her illness or her alleged recovery. "But, how did you know that I was on the road to recovery?"


The lecherous smile dissolved into a smirk of self-satisfaction as Milly beamed. "My grandpa's the principal of the school, so I get to look through the records whenever I want! And lemme tell you, there's some interesting reading hidden between all the boring parts!" The blonde dropped an exaggerated wink as Kallen's eyes widened at the revelation. "Nobody in Ashford Academy has any secrets from me – not for long, at least!"


For a brief moment, Kallen suddenly felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, about to overbalance and fall. Does she know about Naoto and the Resistance? Is that what she's saying?! Her palm itched for her knife, but Kallen smashed her spiking fear of discovery back down. If she knew I was a killer and a rebel, she wouldn't have confronted me about it by herself in the middle of a school. Kallen reassured herself, She would have told the authorities, and I would've been arrested before I could run. Which brought up the interesting question about what secrets the blonde was alluding to, assuming she wasn't just bragging or fishing for information.


The only way out is through. Kallen thought, realizing that not showing any reaction or interest in such a statement would be a blatant sign that she had some sort of secret to hide. And if I can get in close with her, maybe I'll be able to get access to those records too! 'Audacity, more audacity, and always audacity', as the line goes. And so, instead of recoiling back from the smug Milly, Kallen summoned up her bravery and pulled Milly closer, letting her own smile broaden and sharpen to match the other girl's expression. "That so? Got any juicy morsels you'd like to share with me?" Doing her best not to gag at her own actions, Kallen leaned in closer, almost touching the other girl's nose with her own. "Cmon, you know you wanna. What's the point of having secrets if you don't tell anybody?"


For a moment, Milly Ashford looked absolutely poleaxed at the sudden reversal of the social momentum, but she quickly recovered her poise. She slid her arm down Kallen's shoulder and happily hooked her arm around Kallen's, and then half-walked, half-dragged the redhead down the hall, merrily and loudly talking about the myriad minor scandals and screw-ups that had occurred at the Academy recently, taking care to blatantly point out anyone who was both involved in the latest gossip and unfortunate to be out in the hall at that moment.


As they approached the location of Kallen's next class, she tried to subtly escape the blonde's surprisingly tight hold on her arm without success. Just as Kallen was about to give in to her impulse to force Milly to let go, the older girl turned on her heel and wrapped her in an overly fond farewell embrace, prattling on about how much she'd enjoyed speaking with Kallen and what a great listener she was. To Kallen's hidden rage, the blonde took the opportunity to let her hands roam up and down her back, and she only barely resisted the urge to forcibly shove the blonde against a wall and see how she liked being threatened with a knife and feeling the terror as the four men surrounded and her palms were so sweaty and the knife was trembling and oh god where was Naoto and...


Finally, Milly let go and bounced away, finding some fresh target to harass, and Kallen took a moment to close her eyes and take a deep breath. Holding back her anger suddenly seemed like an impossible task to Kallen, and she wanted nothing more than to flee this damned fancy piece of shit school and the scum who infested it. All for Japan. She thought, remembering Tanya's words as they sat together on some desolate street. I can endure this. It's all for the cause. Nothing's too big to sacrifice for a free Japan. As she entered her class, Kallen imagined introducing Milly to another blue-eyed blonde, and smiled dreamily imagining the likely result of that meeting. Someday, Milly, everything you love will burn. I promise you, by the time we're done, this whole wretched building will be ash.

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 7: A Strategic Reorientation

(AN: Okay, welcome to what is basically Arc 2 of this story. This chapter fought me tooth and nail to get written, and I hope you like the result. Thank you to Siatru for beta reading this chapter.)


I woke up feeling exhausted, never an ideal start to the day. Every muscle in my arms, shoulders, and chest felt strained, like I had tried repeatedly to lift an overly heavy object, and my eyes felt as if they'd been glued shut. I recognized the feeling from my long-ago days of suffering through the Imperial aerial mage training program, where each day we were compelled to exert our magical abilities to the very knife's edge of collapse, day after day. The feeling of complete mana depletion also reminded me of that insane zealot of an orb development researcher, Dr. Schugel. The anger at the memory of that man's crazed eyes and scorn for safety features proved adequate fuel to pry my eyes open in the desperate attempt to escape. You're safe, I tried to reassure myself, you're not in the testing division anymore. You're... huh?


I could be wrong, but I was fairly certain I'd fallen asleep on one of the couches in the basement hideout, an admittedly uncomfortable place to sleep but far better than many other places I'd slept. But, judging by the sunlight flooding through a grimy window above me, I wasn't in a sub-basement any more. No... No, no, no! I remembered the last time I'd gone to sleep and awoken elsewhere – had I somehow died again in my sleep? Had I somehow been injured during the struggle and not noticed due to shock, or had artillery once again rained down and destroyed my world? Had Being X stolen my soul and forced it into yet another horrible situation just as my life in Shinjuku started to improve?


Fortunately, as the sudden adrenaline rush of pure horror filled my limbs with new energy, I recognized the room as Naoto and Ohgi's studio apartment, and indeed saw Naoto himself sitting at the table, munching on crackers. He had been staring off into space, no doubt weighing the options ahead for our group, but as I began to stir he blinked and looked over at me.


"Ah, Tanya. Good to see that you're finally up – I was beginning to wonder if you'd sleep all day!" Naoto's usually genial charm was present, but in a much lesser degree, and none of his usual energy was evident in his voice. He sounded worn out and dry, and from across the room I could smell the pungent reek of cigarette smoke. "How about you wash yourself and join me for a snack? I've got some things I'd like to go over with you."


I looked down at myself, and winced. My hands and wrists were reddish brown with blood from last night's mission, and I could feel the material of my sweatshirt tugging against my skin where the crusting dried blood had glued it to my forearm. Altogether, an unprofessional state to be seen in by a superior, particularly without the excuse of being at the front lines to mitigate the awkward situation. Idly, I wondered if this request for a sudden meeting with an undefined agenda was some sideways punishment for my slovenly behavior, but that seemed out of character for the slick managerial style of Kozuki Naoto's leadership. More likely he was giving me time to fully wake up before getting down to whichever brass tacks needed handling at the present, and had graciously suggested washing myself so I would have something to do as I shook off the cobwebs.


I nodded and responded with a chipper "Absolutely!" and sprang to my feet, or at least attempted to do so. My affirmation came out as more of a croak then a chirp, and I had to lean on the floor as I hauled myself up. I feel weak... What's happening to me? Instinctively, I ran through the usual equations for my enhancement package, but nothing happened. No familiar strength returned to my arms, and the absence of my typically enhanced reflexes was so unexpected I nearly tripped over my own feet as I made my unsteady way towards the kitchen sink.


I overdid it last night, that's the only explanation. I thought as I pushed the footstool Ohgi had brought home after my first week in the apartment in front of the sink. And then I didn't eat when I returned... I must be completely out of energy. I'd experienced something like this before, after the first time I'd activated the Type-95 and had nearly died from the sudden and uncontrolled elevation gain. My initial reasoning for trying to throttle that cursed orb in the crib had been my near-death experience on the testing field, coupled with my near total mana depletion after I'd managed to land safely back on earth. Only the intervention of Being X himself, his alleged "blessing", and his catspaw Schugel had forced that damned orb into existence despite the funding cuts to the development project my report had prompted. Another example of that bastard thinking that social laws and values don't apply to him. He had the power, so he did what he wanted. My legs quivered as I mounted the stool, but I gritted my teeth and forced them to steady as I turned on the sink. Thankfully, the water was working today, and after only a few halting spurts the ice cold water flowed freely from the tap. I wonder if the "Holy Britannian Empire" really was founded with his approval? They seem to have the same value system, after all. Do what you want, who cares what it costs everybody else.


The cold water was like a balm to my increasingly itchy skin, and the dried blood sluiced away down the drain. The rough soap stung the myriad irritations and sores left on my hands after hours of exposure to rotting blood, but the sting helped me ground myself in the moment almost as much as the bone-deep chill of the water. All too soon, my hands were clean, leaving me with no further excuses to dawdle, and so I turned off the water, hopped down from the stool, and joined Naoto at the table. He looked rather uncomfortable, for some reason, and didn't seem eager to start our conversation. Instead of saying anything, he just pushed the sleeve of crackers over to my side of the table. Out of courtesy, I took one and nibbled politely at it. Like a switch had been thrown, my belly made itself known and suddenly I could only think about how hungry I was, and how I had missed breakfast. Worse still, my stomach growled so loudly I was certain it was audible to Naoto, who thankfully merely raised an eyebrow and gestured at the crackers. Thankful, I took another, and another, mindlessly eating until I suddenly realized that half the sleeve was gone, there were crumbs all down my front, and that my enhancements had begun to work once again.


As I bit down into yet another cracker, Naoto chose that as his moment to speak up. "Tanya, I want to start off by saying you've been a huge help. I'm glad Ohgi found you and brought you here. I hope that you understand that we're all very impressed with what you've achieved these last few weeks -"


I nearly spewed crumbs across the table as his reserved tone sank in. I know this pattern! I was accustomed to sitting on the other side of the table, but I could recognize a disciplinary meeting when I was on the receiving end too. The vague compliments, the professional assurances... It's the softening up start of an HR meeting before the inevitable "but..."! I tried to marshal a defense, but I couldn't think of what I'd done to require official counseling. Is this because I acted without orders last night, and left Ohgi by himself? I had to take the initiative! I didn't have any means of communicating the evolving situation!


" - But I'd like to know where you want to go from here." Naoto continued, and my train of thought ground to a screeching halt. "As far as I can tell," he continued, seemingly unaware at how my panic sublimated into sudden confusion, "you're a great shot, and you've got a real knack for seeing opportunities and taking them." Wait, he's praising me for leaving Ohgi behind? That can't be right! "But yesterday, you also showed you could throw together a good plan, and get people on board with your ideas." Well, that's a relief... He's noticing that I have other competancies beyond just fighting! I'd known that Naoto was a good leader, but I'd been concerned that his warmongering tendencies would blind him to everything outside raw combat potential.


"And..." My heart sank in my chest. The way he'd enunciated that 'and', and the significant pause following it boded ill. "Ohgi and I have been talking, and we're worried that your abilities in the field might be impacted by how underweight you are." No! This isn't a disciplinary hearing! I'm going to get a medical discharge!


I began to muster a protest, flailing about for some way to convince him that I was fully capable despite my skin and bone appearance, but Naoto put up a hand, stopping my protest before it began. "I'm not saying you're doing a bad job or you're weak or whatever. I know your circumstances." He put his hand down and smiled at me. "I just want to point out that part of the haul you captured last night was a whole box of Britannian cash, so you can afford to buy plenty of food now from the black market." I had more or less forgotten about the money, as I had been certain it would be set aside for the operational needs of the cell. I hadn't realized that Naoto would let me use any of it for personal expenses. "So, here's my suggestion:" he continued. "I want you to take on more of the background work – talking with Inoue about supply questions, talking with Ohgi and I about potential strategies and targets, and all that kind of big picture stuff. At the same time, you can take the opportunity to eat as much as you'd like, and maybe work out with Tamaki and Nagata. Build up your muscle a bit, y'know? How does that sound?"


It sounded glorious. If I was reading this situation correctly, Naoto was offering me the managerial post I'd been dreaming of since I first joined this cell far earlier than I could have dreamed. If I started planning out operations with him and Ohgi to fulfill his father's strategic objectives, or if I began to help Inoue with expanding the cell's logistical base and reach, I'd be far too valuable to risk falling into enemy hands, and thus safe from front-line assignments. Plus, if I had enough money to buy my own food, I wouldn't need to work any more odd jobs to feed myself, so I would have enough time and energy to begin training this body back into something close to what I'd been like before a damned Republican shell had blown me back into Being X's hands. In fact, it sounded too good to be true.


Is this another test? I wondered, feeling unaccountably weary at the thought. Is he still doubting my commitment to the cause? Or is he seeing if I'm some kind of spy, who would jump at the idea of access to more information about what Lord Stadtfeld is planning? I was relieved I could, for once, easily discard my concerns. I'd given him no cause to doubt my reliability, and I'd proven my willingness to kill to further the cause of the cell. And the cell was currently far too small to justify inserting an agent to gather intelligence, so the whole idea that I was a planted spy would be laughable, especially considering the Britannian tendency of shooting any number that looked rebellious and only determining guilt after the fact.


I still felt myself waffling, though. Nothing this good came without major strings attached, in my experience, and I couldn't help but try and figure out what those strings were before I agreed. After all, when I'd thought I'd been assigned to a training squad, I discovered that the training squad also were the guinea pigs for prototype orbs. When command had picked up and implemented my rapid response mage battalion idea, I'd ended up stuck with the task of getting the whole concept to work. Even when I'd manage to knock Dacia out of the war in a month, my only reward had been deployment back to the Rhine Front, where I'd... where's my arm where's my face run out of luck.


Naoto interrupted my trip down memory lane with a deliberate cough. "Honestly, there's another way you could help the cell: if you gain a bit of weight, you'll look just like a Britannian. You're the only one of us who doesn't look obviously Japanese, but you're too skinny to pass as a Brit civilian right now." I don't know exactly what expression I made in response to that, but Naoto hastily began talking again, this time in a soothing tone, as if I'd pulled a gun on him. "Look, I know you hate Britannians, but just think about it, Tanya! You'll be able to infiltrate the Concession with ease! None of them would think a cute little girl is actually an agent of the Resistance! Remember your idea about selling drugs to the Britannians? Having an agent who can pass as Britannian and who looks so harmless would make that whole plan far simpler!"


At the "cute little girl" line, my hands had begun to ball into fists, but I took in a deep breath, relaxed them, and thought about the whole idea rationally. While my memories being dolled up for the Propaganda Bureau, with Visha enthusiastically cooing over me, were humiliating, they'd already proven useful when convincing Ohgi to give me a weapon. Ignoring the prickling in the corners of my eyes again as I started to cry again, dammit, why?! I looked back up at Naoto, nodded, and smiled.


"I'm eager to help the cell in whichever way you think is best." I began, but Naoto interrupted me for the second time. "No, that's not what I meant." He paused, seemingly going over his words, and began again. "I think you have the best understanding of what you are capable of, and you are intelligent enough to understand what we are trying to do. Hell, you basically made Tamaki reconsider why he's fighting Britannia in about three sentences. I want you to tell me where you think you'll do the most good, and I'll put you there." I had? When? When I'd insulted him? Wait, is he giving me the freedom to choose my own assignment?!


I had never had that kind of freedom before. In my corporate first life, I had been a cog in a machine, turning as I was directed to by those higher up. In my military second life, I had similarly been a small part of a far greater whole, my desires immaterial to the far away staff officers deciding where I was to go and what I was to do based on their own understanding of vast and intricate strategic plans. The only time I'd been given any degree of freedom to execute my orders as I'd seen fit had been with the creation of the 203rd, but it had been made clear to me from the beginning that my handling of that task would be under constant review. But now, I had found myself employed by what I was coming to understand was essentially a start-up operating in a hostile environment. That meant that there was no safety net in place, no appealing to higher authority or relying upon reserves of personnel or supplies, but that also meant that Naoto was free to operate his cell as he wished, as long as he carried out his backer's objectives. And so he'd decided to pass that freedom on to me...


I swallowed hard, trying to force the uncomfortable lump in the back of my throat down, and scrubbed vaguely at my eyes. I had begun to wonder if I had developed an allergy to dust or something, because recently I just kept tearing up during seemingly every conversation and it was because you were alone and hungry for so long that any kindness seems foreign very inconvenient and quite annoying.


"Thank you very much, sir. I appreciate your confidence in me." I was proud at how smoothly and professional that had come out, with only a minimum of the hoarse scratchyness of hay fever marring the delivery. I need to keep my cool! My mind whirred at the implications of what he was offering. I can't show too much enthusiasm or he'll doubt my ability to remain competent while self-directed! "If you don't mind, I would like to speak with Inoue and Ohgi first, so I can get a better understanding of how the cell operates, before I commit to any specific project or role."


Naoto smiled and nodded, the exhaustion I'd noticed stamped on his face seeming to fade into... relief? Was he worried I'd be offended by a promotion? That didn't make any sense – it was a rare employee who was opposed to climbing the totem pole, and I was certain I'd clearly signaled my desire to advance in the organization. Perhaps he was concerned that I might immediately let my new freedom go to my head and start issuing demands? I could understand that – some people always tried to take a mile for any inch given and felt no scruples about biting the hand that fed them. Fortunately, as an experienced corporate operator, I understood the importance of being loyal to patrons. He knew exactly the coin to buy my favor, I marveled at the savvy Naoto had just displayed. Certainly not an Alexander, perhaps more a Caesar on the rise? He's given me enough rope to hang myself, while also putting me deeply in his debt. He's giving me an opportunity to prove myself while keeping me firmly under his thumb. I had, of course, no ambitions of challenging Naoto for control of the group, as among other reasons I had no relationship to Lord Stadtfeld, but he didn't know that, and I could only admire the way he had dealt with a potential internal rival.


"Fine with me!" Naoto pushed off the table and stood, and I hastily made to drop the crackers and stand up as well, only for him to wave me back down. "No need. It's my mother's weekly day off today, and I'm meeting her for dinner." He walked towards the door, snagging his coat from the peg it hung by as went. "Ohgi will be back shortly, so he can take you over to the hideout if you want. Inoue should be coming in tonight to update our inventory, so you'll have an opportunity to talk with her as well if you'd like."


The implicit message was loud and clear. I wouldn't be allowed to sit on my laurels – Naoto had given me operational freedom, and he expected to see dividends quickly. "Understood! I'll get right on that." I chirped a reply, smiling coolly to try and express both my pleasure at my new assignment and my professional capacity. Naoto frowned slightly at that for some reason, but shook his head and left rather than raise whatever concern he had. Must be late for his dinner meeting.


---------


As I waited for Ohgi to show up, I sat and thought about what I could bring to the organization, and what the organization actually needed to further progress towards the goal, namely seizing de facto power over Area 11 by supporting Lord Statdfeld's political goals with Naoto's armed force. Truthfully, we were a long way away from fulfilling that lofty ambition, or my lesser personal ambition of holding a well compensated yet safe position in the Stadtfeld organization. As far as I knew, the total extent of the organization was six men and women in a bunker, seven if you counted Kallen, without any significant resources at our disposal to buy or bribe help.


A humble beginning to be sure, but we also had the advantage of being internally united, without any factions trying to challenge Naoto for leadership, and we were independent of any larger organization, meaning we were free to pursue our own goals. And since every other armed group in Shinjuku is hostile towards us already, we had an absolute abundance of targets


Our challenges could be broadly broken down into three mutually reinforcing issues: Lack of funding and supplies, lack of personnel, and lack of notoriety or public relations.


Without expanding our resource base and establishing more revenue streams, we would be unable to supply, arm, and train new recruits, conduct missions outside of Shinjuku, or pay bribes for information or assistance. I could help with this by negotiating with potential suppliers for better rates, scouting Shinjuku for opportunities to raid other organizations for their assets, or by attempting to find a way into the Concession.


However, our ability to establish new revenue sources would be dubious at best until we acquired more manpower. Our present numbers barely allowed for small hit and run missions, and the loss of even a single member would severely impact our organizational efficacy. In order for the Kozuki organization to survive, to say nothing of meeting our objectives, we needed to expand. I didn't think I'd be the best recruiter, considering my obvious mixed heritage and age, but if I encouraged other cell members to find likely candidates and bring them to me, I was sure that the personnel management skills I'd built up in my past two lives would help me sort the wheat from the chaff.


In order to recruit beyond the social circles of per-existing members, and in order to open up potential funding sources like donations from sympathizers, the Kozuki group needed more recognition, or at least notoriety. Our implicit goal was to serve as the red right hand and attack dogs for the Stadtfeld organization, improving the lives of the Japanese by usurping de facto power from the current Britannian administration, a goal that required us to be a feared element that the average Britannian knew existed. After some thought, I considered that the successful insurgencies of my first life had constructive elements as well as destructive tendencies – from religious extremists to fascist militias to dead-ender communist groups hiding in jungles and caves, all successful irregular forces offered something beyond the war to potential recruits. By contrast, the fools who had tried to take Arene from us had no goal, nothing to offer the people of their city, other than a momentary opportunity to take revenge on an occupying power. I remembered exactly how well that had ended for them.


As I began to consider how to deal with the Gordian knot these overlapping issues represented, Ohgi finally showed up, dripping with enough rain water to flatten his pompadour out completely. I desperately wanted to say it was a dramatic improvement, but it just made him look like a drowned man.


"Ah, good, you're finally here!" Before he'd even closed the door to the studio behind him, I was already up and moving. I didn't own a raincoat, but at least the rain would ideally wash the worst of the filth from my borrowed sweatshirt, and I had found a mostly intact umbrella while scavenging a weak ago. "Let's get over to the basement. I need to see what we've currently got stocked up, and what we need."


Ohgi looked unhappy at the prospect of going back out so soon, but after I pointed out that he was already soaked he gave in. Soon, we were heading through the rain-slicked streets of Shinjuku, carefully avoiding the many flooded areas and dodging around potholes.


The collapse of any kind of civic infrastructure in Shinjuku beyond impromptu repairs made by whoever cared enough to work had led to the effective destruction of the drain system in the Ghetto. Any storm drains that hadn't been destroyed during the combat or collapsed from neglect were jammed with accumulated rubble and trash, and flooded whenever any substantial quantity of rain fell. Worse yet were the old subway tunnels, many of which served as shelter for large numbers of Japanese refugees, particularly those newly forced into Shinjuku from areas annexed into the Concession. The broken tunnels were almost constantly wet, and some of the lower areas fully flooded during monsoon season, driving many out into the streets in search of alternative shelter and causing many of those who stuck it out below ground to catch pneumonia. Aside from the harsh winter months, the monsoon period was easily the worst time to be stuck in Shinjuku.


I considered this as Ohgi and I did our best to avoid the filthier puddles, where the corpses of drowned rats floated and the patinas of oil shimmered. I knew that some combat groups in the world I'd once lived in had conducted urban renewal programs and other civic improvements to buy the love of the local population and to burnish their credentials as the guardians of the common man, and I wondered if we could co-opt that strategy for our own purposes. Organizing whoever was willing to work would give us an excuse to talk to lots of people who were demonstrably interested in improving life in the Ghetto, and acquiring construction equipment would give us an excuse to haul large loads of materials around, which could make smuggling operations more practical as well. Further, if we could make contacts in the local construction firms, that could be a source of specialized labor, particularly people who have experience with demolitions and explosives, which might make it easier to produce material for bombs. Plus, we would actually be improving the lives of the people of Shinjuku, which would improve the group's PR and would reflect well on me.



I wondered idly if the group had ever considered that sort of public outreach as a recruiting tactic before. I wonder what recruiting tactics they've tried at all, considering how small the organization is. I looked up at the man stoically walking a pace ahead of me, doing his best to ignore the wind blowing the rain into our faces. Naoto said I should speak to Inoue and Ohgi, and referenced strategy and logistics when outlining potential ways I could assist the group. If Inoue is the logistics officer, is Ohgi in charge of planning? If so, he'd probably have a handle on recruitment efforts, if only in a supervisory role.


"Hey, Ohgi," I began, raising my voice slightly over the wind and taking a quick look around to see if there was anybody nearby to overhear. Fortunately, the rain had swept the people of Shinjuku from its streets as effortlessly as it had swept the garbage into the clogged gutters, and nobody else was foolish enough to be outside at the moment. "Can I ask you a question?"


Fortunately, Ohgi slowed down so I didn't have to try and keep up with him while holding a conversation. He looked miserable, but smiled encouragingly at me. "What do you want to know, Tanya?"


"How do we find people?" I tried to keep the question as general as possible, just in case the unmaintained streets had ears.


Ohgi sighed and shivered theatrically. "Well, Tanya, that's a pretty broad question, isn't it?" He muttered his response, stooping as a particularly strong gust threw the rain at us with renewed energy. "But considering what Naoto said he was going to talk to you about, I'm guessing you mean targets for your next attack, right?"


Figures that the sadist would immediately jump to the next battle. Honestly, if Ohgi was in charge of planning, it was miraculous the group hadn't been mired in constant running battles yet.


"I was actually thinking about recruiting." I decided to throw caution to the winds and stop beating around the bush. If Ohgi was willing to talk about my budding war on the yakuza in the open air, I could talk about recruitment. Plus, I was getting cold enough that I urgently wanted a distraction from the water running down my spine. "What recruitment operations are we currently running? I know you and Naoto go way back, but you can't recruit an army with social connections alone."


Ohgi grunted noncommittally, before sighing again. "We're not currently running any recruitment operations, Tanya. What you see is what we've got."


No way! Nobody's recruiting for this group at all? "But, what happens if someone dies? Or what happens if we need a mission that requires more than six people? Why aren't we recruiting?!" I tried to keep my tone politely professional, but a crack of anger came through on the last sentence. I just couldn't understand why the organization had neglected such a crucial function of any successful enterprise.


Ohgi winced. "Well, Tanya... None of us are professional rebels, you know? This cell just kind of... happened, once Naoto got back from Britannia. He had all kinds of ideas, and enough money and guns to get us started, but..." He winced again and swallowed. "Well, after we reached out to our old friends and acquaintances we thought would be interested, we didn't really have any idea where to go from there. You can't exactly publicly recruit for an anti-Britannian rebel group, you see?"


---------


I processed the information I'd gotten from Ohgi as we continued to make our way through Shinjuku. I had known the group was green when I'd first joined up, but I hadn't realized how inexperienced they really were. Looking back, I could see lots of things that should have clued me in to how new this cell was, including the way Naoto had carelessly revealed sensitive information and explosives in front of me, and how easy it had been to take down Tamaki.


I had fundamentally misunderstood a key aspect of my employment, and I was rapidly beginning to suspect that Naoto and Ohgi had also misunderstood the same thing I had. I hadn't really been on-boarded as an intern or an entry-level employee like I had suspected. Instead, I'd almost been hired on as something of an outside consultant, someone with valuable experience that could be used to improve the core experience of the group, given adequate time, resources, and freedom. I hadn't recognized that, because I was under the impression that the group was more established than it actually was. Naoto hadn't recognized that, because he hadn't expected someone of my physical age to contribute much to the group beyond another body to throw at problems.


Thankfully, in light of my recent achievements, Naoto had reconsidered my role and granted me the freedom I needed to really improve my new cell. I had earned sufficient respect from at the very least my supervisor and hopefully the rest of my comrades as well to propose alterations to the strategy of the group; now I would have to follow up by improving the operations necessary to make those strategies something other than idle dreams


---------


Inoue was already waiting for us in the thankfully dry sub-basement. Ohgi huddled near the generator, stretching his hands over the chugging machine in the hopes of warming them up just slightly, while I went to the lounge area to join Inoue, doing my best to ignore the wet chill of my clothes as I did so. Unfortunately, I couldn't convince her to start talking about the important matters of logistics until she had plopped a Britannian Army ration in front of me and acquiesced to her demand that I eat. I considered refusing, seeing how it would be difficult to maintain my professional poise with a mouthful of rehydrated spaghetti, but I remembered Naoto's exhortation to eat more so I would appear Britannian and gave in. The growling of my stomach had no impact on my decision making process, of course, but the chemically heated food did take the edge off the cold nicely.


"Naoto told me to tell you everything I can about how the cell's logistics work, so fell free to ask questions. Although, to be honest, there's lots of stuff I'm kind of unclear about myself... Most of our money comes from Naoto, who gets it from his father." Inoue had begun to brief me on the supply-side of our operations, starting with our revenue sources, of which we had essentially one. "I'm not exactly sure how that process works, but Naoto just hands me an envelope of money each month. Aside from that, we get some funding by selling goods we steal from Britannian owned warehouses and occasionally from the more isolated noble manors." As she went on, Ohgi joined me on the couch with his own packaged ration, but kept quiet as Inoue continued. "Most of these exchanges are cashless – we trade valuables or useful materials for weapons, ammunition, medical supplies, rations, so on and so forth."


I nodded. From my experience, most of the local Shinjuku economy was barter-based, and it made sense that the more pedestrian black market trades would follow suit. "What does the black market look like? Is it mostly independent sellers with informal connections to groups like yours? Or is it mostly gang representatives? Is there some kind of central venue, or is it more distributed."


"It's a pretty mixed bag." Inoue had begun to smile, and I wondered if she'd been eager for someone to talk shop with. "It really depends on what you're selling, and what you're trying to buy. Thanks to the Britannians," she grimaced, as did Ohgi, the default response to any mention of our hated conquerors, "even stuff you wouldn't think would be on the black market is, since they collect their 'taxes' as often as they send soldiers to patrol here. So, you've got lots of independents selling food, blankets, clothes, lightbulbs, hand tools, you name it, and they tend to sell out of their houses, or backrooms or whatever." She made a cutting gesture with one hand, as if setting that demographic aside.


"Then you've got slightly larger players who trade more specific, valuable items. Lots of them are around our size, less than ten people, and they tend to be dedicated to a specific type of item. Vehicle parts, medical supplies, medicine, computer parts, burner phones, that sort of thing. Usually valuable, usually portable, and something you'd probably get shot for if the Brits finding you selling it."


I nodded understandingly at that. Those were the bread and butter of groups like our own, and it was understandable that the Britannians heavily discouraged their sale to Elevens like ourselves. "And how do these small, independent operators sell their goods?"


"Well, that depends. Some of them have little hideouts like our basement." Inoue gestured at the bare cement walls, particularly the armory shelves. "There's a couple of loose groups that have banded together to hold periodic exchanges in a few of the more abandoned subway stations – the ones that are flooded half the year. They usually charge a small fee to enter, and usually apply a tax to sales made in their markets, which go towards bribing the Britannians to stay away from those areas. Oh yeah, those markets pretty much exclusively deal in Brit cash or valuables."


That raised an interesting point regarding the corruptibility of the local Britannian garrison, but Inoue was on a roll and I didn't want to divert her onto a tangent, so I just signaled for her to keep going.


The gray eyed woman nodded, and continued. "Above that, and you're getting into the lower end gangs, which is about as high as we've ever traded. They control the local weapons trade, and if you want to buy firearms and ammunition here in Shinjuku, you can't escape dealing with the gangs. Same goes for hard drugs, good medicine, explosives, and people."


That raised all kinds of questions, starting from 'can you be more specific about which gangs are involved in what?' to 'people?', and I decided to start with the most obvious one.


Inoue sighed. "Yes, people. The Britannians aren't the only slavers around in Shinjuku, I'm afraid. The gangs deal in kidnapping and ransom collection, and they sell people who they aren't paid for quickly enough to whoever wants to buy them, or put them to work in some of the more, ah... extreme entertainment areas catering to Britannians." She winced as she talked about the last bit, and I could understand why. Nobody wanted to talk to a child about human trafficking, after all.


That said, Naoto had clearly approached me as an adult capable of making my own choices, and if I backslid now when it would be convenient, he likely would lose faith in my ability to stand on my own two feet once Ohgi inevitably reported back to him. Time to nip this in the bud.


"Inoue, my mother was a prostitute." I began, choosing my words with care. "I know how she paid our rent and bought our food. I know what a brothel is. I'm fortunate that she cared enough about me to tell me which streets I should avoid at all costs, and the kind of men I should run from. You don't need to censor yourself around me."


Now Inoue and Ohgi both looked uncomfortable, which I regretted, but it had to be done. "Tanya..." Inoue began in a soft voice, "I wasn't just talking about prostitution. I don't know if it's still happening, but... Well, at least for a few years after the conquest, some of the Britannian nobles would pay to watch dogs sicced on Japanese. Apparently, they'd take bets on how many minutes it would take before the dogs would tear out their throats." She trailed off, and Ohgi chimed in with the caveat "At least according to the rumors."


Well, that was... interesting, in a way. It's utterly disgusting. It's a waste of human resources and displays a contempt for our common humanity. I supposed it wasn't too much of a stretch from the infamous Coliseum Games of the Romans, but the idea of being savaged by dogs before a crowd of watching Britannian nobles... I didn't need a new reason to hate the Britannians, and I didn't want to get overly emotional. I was here to do a job, and I could rage at the utter depravity of the barbarians who had conquered us later.


"Tell me more about the gangs. Do different gangs specialize in different goods? Do they have any sort of united governing organization, or do they compete against each other?"


Inoue shook herself, and continued, her voice returning to its previous, confident timbre. "The gangs are in no way united. They frequently go to war with each other, usually over territory, but sometimes over the right to sell at different markets." She took a breath, and continued in a lecturing tone. I wondered if Ohgi was the only former teacher in our ranks. "Basically, there are a few pieces of common ground throughout Shinjuku where weekly meets are held – they're pay to enter, but they tend to be pretty safe, since nobody wants business disrupted. The gangs tend to work out who will get to sell what or where either by negotiating or fighting during the week before the market."


Ohgi looked up from his ration again. "They're usually a pretty well attended affair. Lots of Japanese, but lots of Britannians there too – soldiers and nobles usually, but you get a few corporate types every now and again."


Which led neatly into another useful discussion topic. "How corrupt are the Britannians here?" I asked. "Clearly there's some on the take, but how do you know which ones won't just shoot you and take the cash?"


Inoue nodded briskly. "Great question. That's always a risk, especially as you go higher up in the food chain." She began tapping on the table, presumably burning of stress as she continued. "If you can, approach soldiers from the homeland, not the other areas. They're more confident in their supremacy, so they'll take the bribes as their due and leave you alone. The ones drawn from other Number populations feel the need to prove their loyalty, so they're less willing to take a bribe – or pricier if they do."


"Approach the common Britannian soldiers, and be prepared to spend a great deal." A simple rule. "Makes sense. Anything else?"


"Check their uniforms." Ohgi had finished his food, and leaned in to the discussion. "Their bodies and posture too. If their uniforms look shabby, or if they're overweight or slouching, they're probably not worried about looking good or working hard. They're usually the ones willing to take a bit to look the other way."


That seemed like a decidedly risky assumption to make, and I took it with a grain of salt, remembering that the cell was almost as new to all this as I was. But, they're still alive and free, so they might be onto something. It did mesh with what I remembered from my time in the Imperial Army – most of the time, the more slovenly a soldier was, the less concerned with they were. On the other hand, if they had just signed up for the opportunity to kill with impunity, they'd be equally unconcerned with the niceties of military life and perfectly willing to murder.


After that, the meeting gradually wound down, until Inoue announced she had to get home to make dinner for her aged parents. I thanked her for her time, and reassured her that Ohgi and I would shut down the generator and lock up before we left. I took the opportunity to convince Ohgi to join me for a bit of target practice, and spent the next hour improving his accuracy with great results. He seemed somewhat bemused at being instructed by a biological child, inverting the relationship he was accustomed to, but to his credit he dutifully corrected his grip when prompted and stopped jerking the pistol up when he pulled the trigger.


After another wet walk back home, I found myself back under my blanket with a mind brimming with ideas. It was clear that the gangs had to go, but if they had that much traffic with Britannians someone would have to at least temporarily step into the market gap to prevent the Britannians from doing so themselves. Except for the human trafficking market segment, which would have to be torn out root and branch. On the plus side, freed slaves have always been an excellent source of rebellious fighters with nothing to lose.

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 8: A Look Outside

(AN: A big thank you to Siatru for beta reading this chapter.)


"-And so, I propose we focus on public improvement projects. Not only will this have an immediately positive impact on our neighborhood, but it will both endear our organization to the locals and differentiate us from the gangs as a source of constructive employment." I looked up from my page of notes, densely covered in a scrawl of mixed kanji and Germanian, and met Naoto's gaze from across the table. And now, to conclude. "As such, we should prioritize importing staple foods in bulk, multi-vitamins, and portable water purifiers. While this will have a less immediate impact then handing out weapons to anybody who can use them, it will likely produce more long-term support without attracting immediate retaliation from the gangs." Not to mention that untrained fools running around with guns would be more likely to shoot each other than the Britannians.


"Of course," I continued, "the question of funding presents a potential stumbling block." As always, the hardest part of any pitch was convincing the client to part with their cash. And unfortunately, there really was no way around it. "At the moment, we lack the necessary revenue streams to initiate a true revitalization project – not to mention that any sign of sudden prosperity in the Ghetto runs the risk of attracting interest from the Britannians or the gangs." Shifting the focus from the lack of organizational liquidity to other concerns would help the medicine go down. "However, I believe that a pilot program funded by the income from the raid two days ago will demonstrate the potential benefits this program has to offer."


The morning after I'd met with Ohgi and Inoue, I had woken even earlier than normal and begun to assemble a new strategic pitch based on what I'd learned and seen. I'd worked through the day, weighing ideas and trying to suss out all points of failure, and had ended up burning through several plans before settling on my current concept.


At present, the Kozuki cell in Shinjuku was weak, and wouldn't be able to attack either the gangs or the Britannians head-on. We'd only achieved our first minor victory through ambush, and I couldn't count on my luck holding, not with Being X no doubt still laughing at me from his timeless moments. After some war-gaming, I decided that attempting to subtly escalate hostilities between the gangs would be a bad move – even if we weren't caught in the inevitable crossfire, lots of ordinary civilians would be, which would go against the stated aim of the organization with minimal benefit. Besides, Japanese civilians wouldn't be the only ones potentially caught in the crossfire, considering the number of Britannians who attended various unsavory entertainments hosted by the gangs, and nothing would stir up official interest in Shinjuku faster than dead Britannian nobles.


My next thought was trying to take the fight to the Britannian Concession, specifically the newly dubbed "Tokyo Settlement". Unfortunately, the difficulty of smuggling things into the Concession, as well as our lack of the necessary expertise and material, forced me to shelve this plan for the foreseeable future.


Similarly, my plan to begin generating funding for the rebellion by smuggling amphetamines and other drugs into the Concession had to be shelved for the same reasons. We lacked the expertise and material to really establish a profitably large supply of drugs to distribute in the Britannian sectors, as well as the means to smuggle the product from Shinjuku to the Tokyo Settlement.


But while smuggling items from Shinjuku into the Tokyo Settlement was difficult, the inverse wasn't necessarily true. If Inoue and Ohgi were correct, large numbers of Britannian nobles, soldiers, and commoners were coming to the Shinjuku Ghetto on a routine basis, and were greasing the palms of the guards to take no official notice of them or their activities. This meant that not only were significant numbers of the local garrison willing to be bribed, they were also unconcerned about items being smuggled into Shinjuku.


Ultimately, the best plan I could come up with was to adopt a more constructive approach towards our dealings with the people of Shinjuku. The people here had virtually nothing beyond the clothes on their backs – starvation and disease were constant facts of life, and the squalid living conditions did nothing to improve either the health or the long-term prospects of the people. Giving them anything would help us secure both their loyalty and the bone fides as true defenders of the Japanese man in the street.


I figured that the best place to start would be addressing the ever mounting food shortage. Importing bulk amounts of staple grains into the Ghetto would at least keep bellies full, while bringing in multivitamins would hopefully offset the results of nutritional deficiencies, like scurvy and rickets. Water purifiers would help reduce the negative health factors of life in Shinjuku, and would hopefully reduce the high post-Conquest rate of child mortality as well, preserving the labor force of tomorrow.


Naoto looked thoughtful as I shuffled my notes. I hoped at least some of what I'd said had gotten through to him. I knew he was the hot-blooded sort, and this sort of non-confrontational strategy probably hadn't been what he'd been hoping for since he'd promoted me after my strike on the gang members, but I'd made sure to frame my plan as merely preparatory, building up our base of public support and personnel before we struck out against the parasitic gangs and the hated invaders.


Finally, he stirred. "Well, Tanya, this is certainly... ambitious. You've got some really great ideas here. But..." He paused, looking unsure of what to say next, and leaving me full of anxiety as the momentary pause stretched on. But? But what?! What's your objection? Just spit it out already.


Before Naoto could express his reservations, someone knocked on the apartment door. With an expression of clear relief, Naoto lept to his feet and looked into the peephole. I quickly spun up my enhancements, ready to hurl myself towards the pistol concealed behind a pot on the counter, but relaxed as Naoto let Kallen into the room.


The younger Kozuki looked incongruously out of place in the dingy apartment, sparkling clean in clothes that, while not flashy, were a significant step above the shabby hand-me-downs worn by practically everyone else in Shinjuku. In a peculiar way, her blatantly Britannian appearance probably kept her safer than any attempt at blending in would have, considering the typical punishment meted out for any Britannian death. I could only imagine that the standard one hundred punitive executions would likely be far more enthusiastic than normal if the Britannian in question was the pretty young daughter of a powerful lord, instead of some random worker or soldier.


"Kallen! Good to see you! How was school?" Naoto enthusiastically greeted his sister as she walked over to the table and took the seat he'd just occupied. I nodded at her, and she smiled and nodded back at me before turning back to her brother.


"It's got way too many Britannians in it – just like the rest of Japan." Kallen quipped, a sharp smile that didn't reach her eyes on her face. "That said, it's gotten pretty interesting lately." She turned back to me and dropped the smile. "So, I met someone who might be a useful source of info, but she keeps dropping hints that she knows something about me."


Behind her, I saw Naoto's eyes widen in alarm, and I did my best to avoid following suit. I can't lose my cool in front of the troops, but this could be bad – if Kallen's been found out, she could have just led the whole Britannian army to our door!


I took a deep, calming breath, and put aside my worry. If we were already doomed, we were doomed, and there was no use panicking about it. "Kallen, are you in danger? More to the point, are we about to get our door kicked down by the Britannians?"


She looked puzzled, then laughed. "No, no. I was thinking the same thing when I first met her, but she said she knew a secret of mine in the middle of a hallway at school, and has been hanging out with me ever since." Naoto and I relaxed, releasing our breaths in sync. "It's starting to piss me off," Kallen continued, looking increasingly frustrated. "That damned Milly Ashford just isn't leaving me alone – any time I'm outside of class, she's practically hanging off my shoulder! She even follows me into the bathroom!"


Now Naoto looked concerned for a different reason, but I set aside his brotherly worries and focused on the name Kallen had just dropped. "Milly Ashford? Any relation to the Ashford who started the academy?"


"Yeah, she's old Ruben Ashford's granddaughter. He's still running Ashford Academy, by the way." Kallen took back the notebook, and turned to a page near the back before pushing it back across the table. "Anyway, here's what I know about her so far."


Apparently, the Ashfords weren't actually nobility, at least not anymore. They'd backed the wrong horse during one of the royal family's internal squabbles, and been stripped of their titles as a result, but apparently not their wealth or much of their property. They had chosen to exile themselves in Area 11 after the Conquest, and had opened the doors of Ashford Academy a year after arriving. Why would a disgraced noble family move to Japan and start an educational institution? It made no sense, as far as a strategy to reclaim their standing as aristocrats went. No matter how valuable they are for the administration, nor how many contacts they make with the local movers and shakers, Area 11 is pretty provincial as far as Imperial Areas go. The only truly important thing about Area 11 is its strategic Sakuradite reserve, but that was almost certainly locked down under the personal supervision of the royal family.


I set my curiosity about the Ashford family's status aside for the moment, and quickly read the profile Kallen had drawn up for Milly. It sounded like the girl was every inch a noble, official status notwithstanding, a consummate socialite and completely unable to separate business and pleasure. She certainly wasn't a fool, though – based on Kallen's notes, Milly was frighteningly good at uncovering secrets and deploying them to devastating social effect, and had essentially unquestioned control over the student body beyond what the cachet of being the principal's granddaughter could explain. Combined with her apparent at-will access to student records, I could understand why Kallen was attempting to cultivate Milly as a source.


That said, a knife that sharp can cut both ways. "Be very careful with her, Kallen." I advised as I closed the notebook and handed it back. "She's a master of intrigue, and you're just a novice. Don't let her get in your head – remember your objective, and don't let her endanger you or the cause." Kallen gave a determined nod, and I smiled. She's so dutiful... And those were pretty thorough notes for an amateur, and very well organized... If she knows how to brew coffee, she might make a good adjunct...


I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, and ignored the phantom scent of ersatz yet delicious coffee, mixed with cordite and mud. That was long ago, and far away.


Naoto and Kallen were both looking at me, and both looked worried about something. For lack of a better response, I gave my usual dimple smile and shrug combination, hoping the cutesy act would distract from whatever it was that had made them look at me with the same pity you show a crippled relative stuck in a hospital bed, the same contempt veiled in compassion that way.


"Oh, I've got an idea!" Naoto's blatantly fake cheeriness was as welcome as it was forced, moving the conversation along. "Kallen, Tanya wants to look into buying some good food outside of Shinjuku – why don't you help her with that?"


And suddenly I felt like I was back in the middle of that damned photoshoot, the photographer and... the photographer ooh'ing and aah'ing over me, and forcing me into the most ridiculous outfits. Kallen's eyes seemed to change, shifting from her typically intense glare to a more coldly analytical focus.


"We're going to have to get her in some better clothes first." Kallen's voice had changed too, and I felt my heart drop into my stomach at the note of eagerness under the detached tone. "I've got some old clothes that might just be a bit too big for her back at the Manor."


Naoto smiled with apparent sincerity at this idea, and I felt the jaws of inescapable fate close around me. I'm not some kind of doll, dammit! Why do people get so enthusiastic about dressing me up?! Apparently, my consternation was not as well hidden as I thought, as Naoto's smile slipped momentarily when he looked back at me, but he recovered immediately.


"C'mon, Tanya, it's a great idea! You'll get some new clothes, some good food... What's not to like?" Naoto's damned charisma made my initial objections about being subjected to this errand catch in my throat, and I felt myself beginning to slip down the path to meek acquiescence. Gah! No, I need to come up with something! The last thing I need is to show up looking even more Britannian than I already do! Tamaki will never take me seriously! I cast around, trying to find something to object about.


Fortunately, Kallen threw me a lifeline. "Well, she does look pretty Britannian with those blue eyes, but she doesn't speak English. It's going to be a problem getting through the checkpoint, especially if the damned guards actually feel like doing their jobs."


Naoto nodded at that, before adopting a thoughtful expression. "Maybe she could just pretend to be very shy and quiet? You can do the talking, and translate for Tanya once you reach the grocery store?"


And now I had a different problem. I did know some English from my first life and from the first years of schooling I'd had in this life, but I was certainly rusty at best; the problem was that my value as a potential infiltrator into Britannian society would drop like a stone if Naoto thought I couldn't speak the language.


And so, for the first time in over five years, I decided to take a stab at speaking the tongue of perfidious Albion. "I 'ave... zum English." My voice was slow and halting, the unfamiliar consonants catching in my mouth. "I vas... top student... in shool, before."


On one hand, I hated how childish I sounded. My clunky sentence structure, the halting gaps as I grasped for words, the way my already high voice piped at the end of sentences, all of it was embarrassing. On the other hand, the surprise on the Kozuki siblings' faces was delicious, particularly Kallen's open mouthed gape as I forced the sentences out.


"Ze teacher... said I vas... quick study." I continued, trying to remember how to make the th sound and trying to figure out why my enunciation was so clearly Germanian. I hadn't learned English from a German in my first life or a Germanian in the second, but clearly years of speaking one western language had impacted my accent in another. "But I only... remember... ze basic vocabulary... I fear."


Naoto was grinning like a fool, the bastard, and clapped me on the back. "You're already speaking better than half the hooligans in our old neighborhood!" He said in English, taking care to speak slowly and deliberately before switching back to Japanese. "Don't worry, you can just reply to everybody who asks you a question with 'whatever' – you're almost a teenager, they'll expect you to be a passive aggressive little brat at your age! Kallen sure was!"


As the ensuing sibling squabble played out in the background, I surrendered to the inevitable and began to pull on my shoes. My hand itched to snag my pistol, to not enter enemy territory unarmed, but I knew that a shabbily dressed apparent Britannian would be one thing for the soldiers manning the checkpoint to overlook – an armed vagrant would be something entirely different. And so, sadly unarmed, I followed Kallen out of the apartment and down into the street.


As we walked towards the checkpoint, the familiar anxiety of walking into a major meeting unprepared began to grow within me. There were so many points of failure in this little excursion alone, and I lacked information I needed to ensure my safe return to Shinjuku. Will anyone recognize my accent and think I'm a European spy? How am I going to carry my purchases back into Shinjuku without getting stopped? Will the soldiers manning the checkpoint ask for my papers?


Fortunately, that last concern proved almost completely unwarranted.


"Ah, Lady Stadtfeld! You're back already, huh?" All of the soldiers looked identical in their body armor and full-face helmets, but I saw a chevron on the shoulder of the one who greeted Kallen as she presented her ID. "I don't blame you for hurrying – the whole place is just full of the stench of Elevens, huh?"


I tensed slightly, remembering the fire in Kallen's eyes back on that lonely street. Fortunately, she demonstrated an admirable degree of professional detachment; somewhere between Naoto's apartment and here, Kallen's persona had changed completely. Instead of her typical intense stare, full of passion and vigor, her eyes were meek and soft, as was her voice as she replied. "Thank you for your concern, Sergeant. I managed to complete Mother's errand unexpectedly quickly today." She stepped through the checkpoint and waved at me, beckoning me to join her. I quickly reviewed how Kallen had she'd carried herself, squared my shoulders, and walked up to the checkpoint.


"And who's this?" The Sergeant was unsurprisingly unimpressed by my diminutive form, and I did my best to not shrink back. I'd killed men like him by the hundred over the Rhine Front, and I'd killed two more with just a knife and the element of surprise only days ago. I was unarmed, but I was far from helpless. "Where's your papers, girl?"


Kallen walked to my side, and put a hand on my shoulder. "Mother sent me to retrieve her. It's not something I'm at liberty to discuss, Sergeant. I thank you for you discretion in this matter." She reached out towards the soldier, and I saw a quick flash of a small bundle of bills changing hands. Surprisingly, he didn't even count it, just hastily made it disappear into a pouch on his belt.


"Well, far be it to get in the way of your mother's errands, Lady Stadtfeld." He stepped back, and waved us through. "But if you want my advice, you should probably give the poor girl a meal and a bath – she stinks almost as bad as one of those monkeys if I can smell her through this helmet!"


Kallen dutifully thanked the sergeant and bade him a good day, as I quietly stood slightly behind her, doing my best to ignore the squad of armed soldiers idling about the checkpoint. I didn't know if they would have been as willing to accept a bribe in the broad daylight if I had looked even the slightest bit like an Eleven, or if the person facilitating my exit from Shinjuku wasn't the heir of a noble house, but either way it had proved immaterial. Locating a source of ID cards, papers, and cover identities is going to be a priority.


After passing through the checkpoint, Kallen and I moved off down the road at an unhurried pace, doing our best to look as natural as possible. At least, I had to try to look natural and uninterested in the world around me – this was the first time I had left Shinjuku Ghetto since my mother and I had been forced into the district after the Conquest. For years, my world had been constrained by the Britannian checkpoints and the walls that cordoned off most of the Ghetto from the outside world. While the northwestern side of the Ghetto, the furthest area from the Tokyo Settlement, didn't have a wall, it was also far enough away by foot that I'd never ranged that far from my old apartment when looking for work.


It felt like I'd once again traveled to a different world. The handful of people out on the street around me reminded me of American television shows I'd occasionally watched in my first life, more than anything else. Predominantly Caucasian, the people around me dressed in a wide variety of clothes, and all of them seemed to practically glow with health and cleanliness. Thinking rationally, I knew they were just people, no different than the standard Japanese crowds that had occupied the Tokyo of my first life, and in some ways less remarkable than the magical Imperials of my second life's Berun, but... After so long in the slums, they looked almost like a different species. They even carried themselves differently – in the slums, most people carried the burdens of their life under occupation on their backs, but here all the Britannians walked upright with pride.


Suddenly, I realized just how out of place I looked. It had been easy to understand that intellectually back in Shinjuku, especially after meeting Kallen for the first time and being reminded what people with food security looked like, but the emotional weight hadn't quite hit. In Shinjuku, Kallen looked ridiculously out of place, and it was easy to dismiss my own qualms about my appearance due to both the sheer incongruity of her appearance in the slum and her family's excellent genes. Outside of the Ghetto, the novelty of her appearance had worn off, but the differences were just as profound. The weight of how wretched I looked sank into my bones as I thought about the heavily worn and mended clothes I was wearing, and how the bones stood out in my hands.


The momentary shame quickly sublimated into an internal rage, and I found myself sympathizing with Tamaki's reaction to an apparent 'Brit' in his safehouse. The simple knowledge of how wide the gulf was between how our two populations lived was infuriating, and I wanted nothing more than to see everything around me burn. These happy people weren't better than me; they'd had the freedom to go to school, the freedom to eat their fill, and the freedom to enjoy life and to pursue their enjoyments. For them, the prospect of a middle-management job at a good company or in the Administration's bureaucracy wasn't a grand ambition, but a solid career goal. I'm sure if any of them knew my secret ambition, they'd think it terribly small and pedestrian. One day, I swore as Kallen and I arrived at a bus stop, one day I'll collect every bit of backpay and every reimbursement the world, the Holy Britannian Empire, and Being X owe me.


The bus was on time, and as clean and pleasant as the streets it trundled down. The walls and seats were free of graffiti, no haunting smell of urine lingered, and the bus driver smiled and greeted us as Kallen swept her card through the reader twice, paying our fare. I noticed the driver was Eleven, and thus an Honorary Britannian, and I couldn't find it in me to hate him or his choice to collaborate. His eyes were downcast, but his cheeks were full and rounded – clearly, his decision to participate in the new order when given the choice had yielded a degree of material benefit. I can't say that I wouldn't have made the same choice, if it had ever been offered to me, and if I felt for an instant that all the propaganda about Honorary Britannians having a path to successful integration in the Empire was true. I doubted this man or his children would ever rise above being bus drivers or other menial jobs, but that also implied that he would live long enough to have children, a victory in itself.


Kallen and I found our way to seats, and sat quietly as the bus continued along its route. Kallen pulled out her phone, and appeared to be texting somebody, but I didn't want to ask her about it here – speaking in Japanese would have immediately revealed our personal loyalties, and my atrocious English would be almost equally suspicious. Instead, I looked out the window as the Tokyo Settlement went past, and discovered what our conquerors had built atop the land they had stolen from us.


I had never had much interest in architecture, beyond marveling at the sprawling heap that was the Imperial Army's General Headquarters, but even I could see that the entire Concession was full of new construction. Everything was very Western, of course, and I couldn't see any hint of Japanese accents or flavors in any of the immaculate structures. Strangely enough, it didn't look particularly American either, which I would have expected considering the geographic location of the Britannian Homeland. Instead, it felt more like the Gothic style of the Renaissance, crossed with some author's view of a 'city of tomorrow', all expressed in ultra-modern materials. Like most things Britannian, the city that they had built was gaudy, inefficient, and egotistical in the extreme. This was the full expression of the ancient tradition of absolute monarchism, unbridled by even a fig leaf of constitutional government and reliant upon the divine right of kings and naked force. Between the communists and the monarchists, it's hard to decide which is the more illogical and inefficient system of governance.


Eventually, we ended up at a stop in a very nice neighborhood, full of gigantic houses that practically dripped with ostentation. I noticed Kallen slip a bill into the small tip box hanging by the driver's station as we made our way off, which was interesting. I had pegged the Kozuki siblings as being driven into taking up arms against Britannia by a combination of ideological and mercenary factors. While they definitely had beefs against the Britannian racial caste system, they were also using the resistance to install a rival faction into power. Neither motivation explained Kallen's apparent sympathy for Honorary Britannians, though, and I was somewhat surprised by her tenderheartedness. Surely an anti-Britannian zealot would have held collaborators and traitors to the cause in contempt, and a mercenary fighting for their family's glory and power would not care about the well-being of a lowly, honest worker.


As I tried to decipher what Kallen was signalling with this small act, we began to walk down the spacious boulevard, past gated house after gated house. Although, 'house' didn't really encompass the mini-Versailles set back from the road by at least a few hundred meters, each surrounded with gardens and lawns. Pocket-sized or not, they were shockingly huge and luxuriously decadent for being only a half hour away from Shinjuku by public transport.


"Okay, so... Before we get to my family's manor, there's a few things you need to know." Kallen spoke in Japanese, low and fast, as we proceeded. Her face had begun to redden along her cheekbones, but her expression displayed angry resentment rather than any embarrassment. "After my father returned to Japan after the Conquest, he looked up his old family again. My mother," Kallen's usually attractive face twisted in disdain, "was of course all too happy to pick back up again with him. To be a family again."


The redhead sneered at the idea, and I kept silent, nodding along attentively to show I was listening. I knew that Naoto and Kallen had come into contact with their noble father again after a separation during the Conquest, and for some reason their father had picked Kallen to be his heir. Judging by the sheer vitriol in the girl's voice, she had strong, unresolved feelings about the matter.


"Anyway, Naoto was pretty happy to see him again too. They'd been really close, back before he left us, and he'd sent enough money to keep us housed and fed, so I could understand that." Kallen's face relaxed, the sneer falling away and leaving an expression of weary acceptance behind. "I mean, he wasn't as bad as he could've been. I know that he took care of us, gave us money and stuff, but..." She kicked at a trash can as we passed. "He wasn't there, dammit! Naoto had to constantly fight every damned Britannian piece of shit in the neighborhood after Father decided to start paying for our housing again, and somehow Naoto did a better job helping me and Mom out than he did!"


We walked a bit further as Kallen took some deep breaths and tried to calm down. I felt entirely at a loss about what to say to any of this. I'd felt the same way before, when Kallen had been trying to deal with the aftermath of her first kill, but that was something I understood, and something I could help with. At least my mother never left me. I had sometimes wondered, back at the orphanage, what it would have been like to meet my second life's biological parents, assuming Being X hadn't just created my body from thin air and stuffed my soul into it. Would I have had the same feelings of angry betrayal that Kallen had, if I'd ever met the woman who'd abandoned her baby with the nuns?


"I'm pretty sure he wanted to adopt Naoto as his legitimate heir and son, but I guess Naoto just looked too Japanese to pass as a full Britannian." It was interesting that Kallen and Naoto didn't exhibit any sibling rivalry. It sounded like Naoto had done the hard work of keeping Kallen and their mother alive during the initial post-Conquest years, but when the boss had come back, his little sister had gotten the job as official heir and the cushy lifestyle attached. Maybe he was just too interested in fighting, and didn't want the political and social burdens? "He basically gave Naoto whatever he wanted in terms of money and his blessing, and sent him on his way."


Was that when the plan for Lord Stadtfeld's gambit had begun? She didn't mention anything like the father and son working on a plan or a project... Did neither of them actually tell her the plan? That would explain why she didn't understand the implications of her schooling... Or is she just doing her job and maintaining information security? I felt like I was missing some key aspect to the whole plan, and it made me uneasy, but I decided I could consider that later and re-focused on Kallen's continuing briefing on her family.


"Of course, he didn't marry my mother – she's a common Eleven, and she started going a bit crazy after Father abandoned us for years. Definitely not marriage material for a noble. But, he did feel sorry for her, so he graciously gave her a job as a maid." Kallen's words dripped with a level of sarcasm reserved for teenagers, and she clearly didn't understand how thoroughly she'd misunderstood the situation. Her father had given her mother a job where he could easily carry on an affair with her at any given moment, where she had an excuse to be around her daughter all day, and where he could make sure nothing too consequential happened to her. My mother had been a common prostitute, and she'd slept with a bastard of a landlord in exchange for a single small room. It sounded like Kallen's mother had negotiated a far better deal from her client.


"But, being a noble, he had to marry someone, because otherwise he'd look weak. Thing was, nobody really wanted to marry their daughters to him, since he already had an heir, so they wouldn't have a chance to get their hands on the Stadtfeld estate." That made sense to me. The main point of aristocratic marriage was forming alliances, and if no heirs were expected out of the union, the prospect of a multi-generational alliance was unlikely. "So he found a barren old bitch to marry instead. She's sterile, so her family was happy to marry her off to him, which is good and all for him, but she absolutely hates me."


Not particularly surprising. It must be frustrating to be unable to do the sole task you were brought up and trained to perform. "Does she hate you because you're not her child, or does she hate you because of your heritage?" I wondered aloud, mostly to just keep the conversation moving as we walked. I doubted Kallen was interested in rapprochement, but I was somewhat curious about the source of the stepmother's dislike. Was she a simple racist, and thus likely not involved in Lord Stadtfeld's plan? Or was she resentful that the heir to the hidden kingdom he was setting up in the Area 11 Administration wouldn't be her child?


Kallen merely grunted and shrugged. "Dunno. Probably both. She's not exactly a fan of Japanese, but the only non-Britannian servant we've got is my mother. She might just hate her because, well..." She kind of waved at herself, before shrugging again. "It's not really important. What is important is that we get in, get you changed, and get out as fast as possible. I've never..." She started to blush, and sped up slightly for some reason, and I had to rely on my enhanced strength to keep up with her pace. "I've never brought a friend home before, and I don't want her asking who you are or anything like that."


Finally, we were moving back to something I could understand. Tactical objectives and planning were, of course, second nature to me after my acceptable performance at the Imperial War Academy. I was certain I'd be able to throw a plan together to get me to Kallen's room, secure the objective, and escape out the door without being detected.


However, my planning acumen went unused, as Kallen simply greeted the man at the front gate of her manor's property and strode in like she had every right to be there, which I suppose she did, sweeping me along in her wake. As we approached the house, she began to slow down, eventually coming to the door at a sedate and ladylike walk. The doorman bowed as she entered, and didn't so much as raise an eyebrow as I followed her inside. I tried to emulate the dainty, almost mincing gait Kallen adopted as we crossed the foyer, but after nearly tripping myself I simply resumed my typical walk instead, keeping behind her as we climbed up a sprawling flight of stairs and crept down a hallway. The floor was covered with a plush carpet with thick pile, which muffled the sounds of our feet, and we went some distance into the manor before we encountered anybody else.


She was dressed in a traditional Victorian maid's uniform, complete with white apron and long sweeping skirt, but her eyes and facial shape betrayed her Japanese ethnicity. As we approached, she turned and looked at us, and before she bowed I could tell she was Naoto's mother. She had the same nose and cheekbones as her son, and strangely for a Japanese woman, the same blue eyes as both of her children. Beyond her eyes, she looked nothing like her daughter. It's strange that both of her children are redheads when she's a brunette. Is the red hair allele not recessive in this world? Unlike her children, Ms. Kozuki's eyes looked almost blank in their placidity. Her expression reminded me of many of my neighbors in Shinjuku, and I internally revised my estimation of Lord Stadtfeld's actions in regards to his paramour. If he had tried to keep her close to protect her and his daughter, he'd clearly failed; she had the same despairing cast to her features that many Japanese had, the look of people caught in terrible situations without any hope of a better life.


"Oh, Mistress Kallen. Good morning to you. I see you've brought a friend home with you today."


Ms. Kozuki's voice was quiet and deferential, and she bobbed her head as she addressed her daughter. It was heartening to see that, for all the burden on the woman's shoulders, she was still able to act with professionalism, even when in private with only her daughter and her daughter's friend. It's such a pity that more people can't remain professional while on the clock when they've got friends or family hanging around. It was part of the reason I'd never pursued any work friendships in my first or second lives – it was too easy to get distracted from the job at hand if you focused on your social life instead.


Kallen's response was decidely less professional, and entirely unbecoming for a superior speaking to a valued employee, much less a family member.


"Shut up. It's none of your business. We're going to my room." Without any further explanation, Kallen swept on down the hall, leaving her mother behind. The maid didn't seem angry, or even offended – she simply let out a slight sigh, smiled briefly at me, and then returned to scrubbing the windowsill she'd been cleaning. I was tempted to offer a word of solidarity, as one Eleven to another, but instead I straightened my shoulders and followed Kallen. As far as Ms. Kozuki knew, I was a Britannian friend of Kallen's, if a shabbily dressed and unwashed one, and nothing worth particular note. Any expression of sympathy could endanger my cover, and so I moved on.


Plus, the last thing I wanted to do was insert myself into the Stadtfeld family's drama. Nobles walk the path of daggers, and the last thing I needed was to earn the personal displeasure of an aristocrat.


As soon as Kallen closed the door behind us, she returned to her normal speed and darted across the room to a walk in closet, directing me towards the ensuite bathroom with its shower before disappearing inside. Within minutes, I forced myself to step out of the luxuriously hot shower, using the ridiculously soft and plush towel to dry my hair. How long has it been, I wondered to myself, since I was last this clean? I'd occasionally had the opportunity to use one of the small shower cubicles in the communal bathroom in Naoto's apartment building, but if the water pressure high enough for the showers to function the spray was ice cold. Using quality soap was amazing too – the only soap available in Shinjuku was rough and homemade, and using it on my hair always made it feel rough and scratchy afterwards. Using scented shampoo and conditioner was... was a luxury I hadn't known I'd missed.


Leaving the bathroom in my underwear and holding my Shinjuku clothes and how had I not noticed how badly they smelled? Blood, and sweat, and filth... How long have I been wearing them? I found a small pile of clothing accumulating as Kallen shuttled back and forth from the closet, dropping off shorts, jeans, blouses, and t-shirts with each trip. Fortunately, her tastes apparently weren't towards the overly feminine, and the majority of her second hand clothes were free of the frills that most of the Britannian women I'd seen so far seemed to favor. Doubly fortunate, Kallen's appetite for dressing me up had clearly been ruined by her encounter with her mother, and so she helped me sort through her clothes with only a minimum of glee.


After a bit of work, we'd sorted out three outfits acceptable to both of us, and Kallen gave me an old backpack of hers to pack the two extra outfits, my Shinjuku clothes, a discarded jacket, and some of my future grocery purchases in. I managed to dodge all skirts and dresses, and wound up in a pair of grey capri pants and a loose white peasant-style blouse. These admittedly clashed badly with the battered and stained sneakers I wore, but Kallen hadn't retained any of the shoes she'd worn before her pubescent growth had begun. While my new clothes were decidedly baggy on me, hanging off my hips and shoulders, I now looked like a skinny anorexic Britannian adolescent, a step in the right direction.


We left Kallen's room and began retracing our footsteps, heading back towards the door and, assuming Being X didn't screw with me again, groceries, but as Kallen closed the door behind her I heard a raised voice coming from around the bend in the hallway ahead of us. Instantly, I was sure the lady of the house had learned that an intruder had infiltrated her family's home, and began to bitterly regret giving in to Naoto and Kallen when they'd stopped me from bringing my gun.


I crept forward, towards the junction, thanking Lord Stadtfeld for investing in such luxurious carpeting. As I approached the corner, I began to pick out words from the ongoing harangue. "-wrong with you?! Can't you do anything right?! I don't know why we bother to keep you around!"


Thankfully, my initial worst-case assumption was wrong this time. Instead of sounding the alarm about a thief or rebel here to murder her in her bed, the elder Lady Stadtfeld was simply berating a hapless servant. Hopefully, she'd leave the poor fool alone sooner rather than later. I felt Kallen move up behind me, and held up a hand to halt her. There was no need for Lady Stadtfeld to see her and start up a conversation, and if we just waited for her to go away, our objective would be complete.


I peeked out, just slightly to see if the aristocrat was heading our way, which would mean we'd likely have to climb out a second story window to avoid detection. Fortunately, the back of a richly dressed blonde whom I could only assume was Kallen's barren stepmother was turned towards me, alliviating that particular worry. As I started to pull my head back to bunker down and wait for the roving irritation to leave us, I tuned back into her ranting in time to catch "Well, you are just a filthy Eleven – I suppose the blood always outs, eh? The only thing you know how to do is sell your body, you wretched whore!"


Admittedly, I knew I should stay quiet and stick with my mission plan. I knew I should consider the situation rationally, and realize that nothing I did here would improve the situation. I knew that, but... A memory of Mother, wincing from the bruises on her arms and thighs, spoon feeding me broth. A memory of Mother weeping in the other room, the sound mixed with rhythmic grunting that my thin pillow couldn't quite keep out. A memory of Ohgi and Naoto talking when they thought I was asleep, "Just another Eleven whore, beaten to death in the slum. Nobody's going to care, Naoto, especially since she usually worked near the barracks. Probably ran into a crowd of drunk soldiers, you know how that story goes."


Before I knew it, I was halfway down the hall and picking up speed, my hands clasped and raised over my head. The blood hammered in my ears, and I could see the bitch starting to turn at the sound of rushing feet but by then I was already leaping through the air and bringing down a hammerblow at the base of her neck, slamming all fifty pounds of me into her spine and knocking her to the floor. She landed face down, head bouncing off the soft carpet, and before I could think about it I followed my training, and guaranteed that she was out of the fight by kicking her in the side of the head. I pulled it slightly, so I didn't break her neck, but I was confident that the target was down.


I looked up from the crumpled woman on the ground, and met the eyes of Ms. Kozuki, stock still with her cleaning rag still in her hands. Behind me, Kallen rushed up, and quietly cursed in Japanese at the sight of her stepmother. For a moment, time seemed to hang still, before I snapped out of... whatever idiocy I'd just experienced, and started trying to fix the situation.


"You two! Get her into her bed, get some ice on her neck to reduce the swelling and pour some of whatever she drinks on her. We need to get her out of sight before anyone else comes up. Move!" Kallen immediately grabbed her stepmother's legs, but Ms. Kozuki didn't move, although her eyes were wide with shock.


"You... You speak Japanese..." Her voice was just as quiet as before, but the deference had been replaced by shock.


With my luck, she'd faint and then Kallen and I would have two bodies to move. Best not to give her any time to think. "Yes, Ms Kozuki, I speak Japanese. I'll tell you more once we're not standing over a body."


Thankfully, the voice of authority worked its magic once more, and soon the Lady Statdfeld was ensconced in her bed, a shot's worth of vodka sprinkled over her discarded clothes. Ms Kozuki assured us that she'd get some ice "for the Mistress's neck" once we left, but was still hanging around, looking from me to Kallen with increasing concern. For a moment, I hoped Kallen would say something, before deciding that I should do the talking. It was my screw-up, and I need to take responsibility for it. What a stupid thing to do...


"Ms Kozuki, I am a friend of your son." A promising start – short, to the point, and establishing my credentials, as if coming in with Kallen hadn't been enough. "Don't worry about anything. You are doing good work – keep it up." Vague compliments aren't as effective as targeted remarks, but everybody likes a bit of flattery. "Keep serving Lord Stadtfeld, and watch Kallen's back. She could be in danger at any time, and you know what Britannians are like." Just keep doing what you're doing, and take care of your daughter in case your employer decided to blame her for this mess. "You too are serving Japan in your own way – listen to your son, and be ready to support him when the time comes. Long live Japan!" Nationalistic propaganda appeals to everybody specifically because it's general, but fosters a sense of exclusivity simultaneously. Plus, what mother doesn't like to hear praise about their children?


Something in my scattergun approach seemed to have hit the mark. Ms. Kozuki's mouth firmed into a determined line, and her eyes filled with resolve. She nodded, and disappeared down the hallway, and I breathed a sigh of relief, and turned to Kallen. She looked flabbergasted, but visibly bit down her first response, instead muttering "We gotta go." before grabbing my hand and pulling me down the hallway after her mother.


As we approached the stairs, Kallen released my hand and resumed her careful, mincing pace. Together, the two of us slowly made our way across the foyer, nodded to the Britannian butler who held the front door opened, and crossed the miniature manor's grounds. As soon as we crossed the threshold of the gate, Kallen hustled me a block down the road, back the way we'd come.


"What the fuck was that about?!" Kallen didn't yell, but instead let out an angry hiss of a whisper. "Are you crazy?!"


"You should have done something yourself." I replied, keeping my tone coolly professional. "It's one thing to maintain your cover, Kallen, but it's another thing to participate in oppression." I turned towards the road and kept walking, feeling Kallen fall into step with me this time. "I saw you give money to that bus driver on the way here – if your cover identity as a Britannian noblewoman doesn't care about Japanese, that was a mistake. Since I can only assume that is not a part of your cover, you must have treated your mother like an Eleven because of your personal animosity towards that woman."


I stopped, and looked at Kallen, catching her eyes. "Kallen, don't you realize she's your most valuable ally in that house? Your stepmother would be only too happy to steal your secrets and sell you and your brother out to the Britannian authorities. Besides, I'm sure she'd be happy to poison your tea someday as well, since you are, after all, just another Eleven in her eyes, correct? None of the other servants can be trusted, especially if your father's new wife had a hand in hiring them." I could tell from the stubbornness in her eyes that I wasn't getting through on that front, and changed tact. "How do you think your father is getting messages and supplies to your brother? Did you really think a man who can survive and thrive in the political waters of Britannia just kept his socially unacceptable former lover around out of the pity of his heart? There's always a reason. No skilled businessman makes an investment without a goal in mind."


That got through. Kallen's eyes widened in shock, just like her mother's, and she took a step back. "You... You think that Father is supporting Naoto's actions? And... And Mom's helping them?!" Either she'd already achieved a masterful level of espionage skills, or Lord Stadtfeld had never bothered to inform his daughter, a key agent, about his plan. What colossal foolishness.


"Clearly." I resumed walking back towards the bus stop, hitching my backpack up on my shoulders. "Did you think he just tripped and fell into a pile of guns and cash? Rebellions, like any endeavor, require seed money. Where else would Naoto get that money, or get military surplus transported across the Pacific? Besides..." I paused, wondering if this might be going a bit over the top, but then pressed on. "Besides, how is her infiltration of a noble's staff to watch over her daughter and assist her son in his actions different from your infiltration of Ashford Academy? We're all playing our roles in a greater plan, Kallen, and we're all making sacrifices for Japan."


After a few steps, I heard Kallen start walking after me, but she didn't say anything. We walked back to the bus stop in silence, and waited for the next bus. Ten quiet minutes later, the bus pulled up and we got on, Kallen absentmindedly swiping her card through the scanner twice to pay our way. After an uncomfortable twenty minute ride, we got off in front of a SamWay grocery store without speaking, though I noticed Kallen drop a sizable bill into the bus driver's tip box as we left.


"I'm sorry." The words were out of my mouth before I knew it, but I just couldn't take the oppressive silence any longer. It felt like a social sword of Damocles was dangling over my neck, and I didn't know how to gracefully resolve the matter. "I forgot about the plan, and I probably added unneeded complications to your home life. I apologize for my hasty overreaction."


Kallen inexplicably blushed, and stuttered out a "N-no...!" before taking a calming breath and continuing. "No, that's not it. I'm... Well, I am kinda upset that you hit that bitch before I got the chance to do it myself! But, I'm not angry... I'm just..." She looked at me, and squinted just a bit as if she were trying to peer through my eyes and into my skull. "Do you really think she's here to help me? She's not just trying to hang on to Father like an idiot?"


I felt my anxiety lift away. Excellent! She's not mad – I won't need to try and find my way back to Shinjuku by myself! "I can't guarantee anything; I'm not a mind reader, nor a liar." I tried to figure out how to phrase what I wanted to say as innocently as possible, considering we were standing on a public sidewalk with lots of people moving around. "Your mother doesn't seem like the kind of woman who'd let herself be pushed around unless it was for a greater cause. Just like you, Kallen – after all, she is your and your brother's mother – she's not helpless, and I doubt she's a fool." If she is your and your brother's mother, she's definitely a romantic, but not a total fool at least.


After that last bit of drama, we finally got to the highlight of my whole day, and my main reason for risking my life by leaving Shinjuku – shopping for groceries. Britannian currency liberated from drug traffickers in hand, I followed Kallen into the SamWay. It was, even more than the rest of my trip, a culture shock. Every shelf was filled with every kind of packaged food and ingredient imaginable, and I could smell delicious fresh bread from the store's bakery, and the rich, greasy scent of rotisserie roasted chicken wafted over me from the nearby lunch counter. Despite all of my scorn for Being X and its claims of godhood, for a moment I thought I had been whisked straight to heaven.


After a heroic exercise of will, I managed to escape the SamWay with my backpack and two sacks of groceries in hand, plus one of the whole chickens that had so tempted me. Chicken aside, I'd been strict with myself, and only purchased goods I knew to be dense in fats and proteins, and could be stored without a refrigerator. I had plenty of beans and nuts, two bags of oranges, several summer sausages, and as many onions and potatoes as I could cram into my backpack. I'd also purchased several large bottles of complex multivitamins, which would hopefully begin to offset some of the damages my earlier deprivation had done to my body. Of course, I'd also broken down and purchased several bars of chocolate and two small tins of coffee and a package of filters. Visha had once shown me how to make an impromptu coffee maker using only a standard Imperial mess kit and a helmet, and I was sure I could replicate the feat, though I doubted it would be half as delicious as her brew had been.


Am I doing the right thing, Visha? For once, thinking about my subordinate didn't make me hurt, and as we boarded the bus back to the stop near the Shinjuku checkpoint I let my mind wander back to her. I remembered how eager she'd been to help me with the paperwork I'd generated to try getting out of creating the 203rd, foiling my plans with an eager smile and helpful hands. I'm sure you'd want me to fight, battle maniac that you were, but should I have tried to cozy up to Lady Stadtfeld instead? Gotten into the Britannians good graces somehow? Idly, I wondered if she would have supported me in my sudden and unprovoked assault, or if she would have been as incredulous as Kallen. Guess I'll never know... Damn the war, damn Being X, and damn me.


Kallen waved goodbye as I passed through the checkpoint. The sergeant on duty had shook her hand again and let me pass through unimpeded, and I waved back as I juggled the grocery bags and the chicken. A few streets down, I found an out of the way corner and changed back into my Shinjuku clothes, hiding the fresh outfit Kallen had given me away in my backpack. It had only been a few hours since I'd last worn it, but somehow the filthy clothes made my skin crawl as I put them back on. Embarrassing! I scoffed at myself as I pulled Ohgi's hoodie back on. Just a few hours of luxury and you've gone soft. Still, it had been nice to see people who didn't look two meals from death at any time, even if they were murderous bastards who'd kill me given half a chance.


I wonder what it would have been like if Being X had left me with my father instead of my mother this time around? I'd never really thought much about my father – as best I knew, he'd been a sailor who's condom had torn one night long ago in Tokyo. I certainly had no clue about his status, his personality, or anything else about the man, except that he'd had blonde hair and blue eyes like me. Still, after getting a brief taste of what it was like to live as Britannian, or at least a half-breed pretending to be a full Britannian, I wondered what my life would have been like. Neither Kallen nor Naoto seemed particularly happy with the Britannian system, since both had taken up arms, but they were also nobles. Maybe the bias against half-breeds in the lower social orders wasn't as bad? That lazy bastard would never do me a favor. Peace was never really in the cards.


Chicken in hand, I left the dismal corner and my weak thoughts of what could have been, and returned to my temporary home. I hoped Naoto would enjoy hearing about how I'd protected his mother's honor more than Kallen had enjoyed watching it happen.

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 9: A Benevolent Society

(AN: A big thank you to Siatru for beta reading this chapter, and for the input of the folks on the Tanya Writers Discord.)


Three days after my trip outside of Shinjuku, I was back in the sub-basement with the rest of the Kozuki cell. I'd taken the opportunity to hand out some of the bottles of multi-vitamins to my terrorist comrades as they'd entered, thrusting a bottle into the hands of each man or woman who entered and encouraging them to take at least one daily to offset the lack of key nutrients in the usual Shinjuku grub. They accepted the pill bottles with various degrees of confusion, except for Ohgi who just smiled tolerantly as I forced a large 500 count bottle into his hands and promised to share them with Mrs. Maki and her children down the hall.


That small exercise in benevolent care and building social cohesion complete, I turned towards the business of the day: Organizing a much larger example of benevolent care and building social cohesion between our small band and the greater Shinjuku population.


"At the moment, our people have nothing." I'd considered standing on top of a crate or something while conducting this meeting, but I decided it would indicate arrogance, or worse, insecurity. Instead, I sat on one of the couches, between Tamaki and Naoto. "That might make them seem more dangerous on first appearance, but it's a double edged sword." Ohgi, seated across the battered coffee table from me, tilted his head, begging the question, and I obliged. "If they have nothing, it means they are hopeless, and just lashing out at the world around them. As soon as their anger is spent, they'll lapse back into inert despondency – useless for any sort of prolonged effort, like removing the Britannians from our glorious land." A few tentative nods at that, but no indications of any buy-in quite yet. "On the other hand, if we give our people something to fight for, some indication that things are getting better..."


"They'll have something to defend, to protect. To fight for." Surprisingly, it was Nagata that finished my thought. He was a quiet man, and by far the one I'd had the least interaction with up to this point. It wasn't surprising that the only one at the table with a child would be the first to understand where I was going, thought.


"Exactly. And that should be where we make our first move." I reached down into my old, battered schoolbag, perched on my lap, and pulled out six half-used notebooks I'd managed to scavenge in the tenement over the last few days. That bag had been with me for years, longer than any other belonging to my name – my mother had bought it for me in my second year of elementary school, when I was five. I'd carried books in it for less than a year, then stuffed it with clothes and valuables when we'd been evicted from our home after the Conquest, and I'd crammed my clothes and scarce toiletries into it again when I'd left our apartment after my mother's death.


"The hell are those for, Tanya?" I jerked out of my brief reverie as Tamaki jostled me, knocking my bag onto the floor. I stooped down, thankful for the excuse to hide my embarrassed flush. This isn't the time to reminisce! I scolded myself as I collected the precious handful of pens that had cascaded out of the schoolbag. You're in a pitch meeting, even if it is with friends! Focus!


Friends? That wasn't right, surely. They were colleagues, useful tools to get me as far from Shinjuku as possible. But that was the word my internal monologue had chosen.


I straightened up, pens in hand, and thrust all the nonsense aside. I had a pitch to salvage from my unprofessional behavior.


"Ahem. As I was saying, giving our people a stake in the future should be our first broad move towards rebuilding our nation." I started pushing a notebook and pen towards each of the others present as I continued. "In order to connect with the local population, which will hopefully increase our reputation and get our name out as a force for good in Shinjuku, we first need to find out what they need." Handing the last notebook and pen to Naoto, I straightened back up, and started ticking possible topics off on my fingers. "Do they need holes patched in their walls or windows before it starts to get really cold? Do they need leaky pipes patched so their homes aren't always wet? Do they need specific medicines or prescriptions? Extra food? A new blanket or jacket?"

I put my hand down and looked around at the rest of the cell. "The best way to prove that we aren't another gang, that we're here for the people, is to address their needs in a concrete and immediate way. Let them know that they'll get something out of supporting us, and we're even willing to go out of our way to help them out first." This wasn't a new tactic by any means. In my own first life, the yakuza had done much the same, acting as 'benevolent associations' and the like to solve problems for whoever was willing to make a deal. In this world, however, the gangs in Shinjuku had long since dropped such civilized pretensions, instead revealing their own base nature by sucking up to the Britannians and brutalizing their fellow Japanese. I was just using their old tactics against the damned kapos.


"All of us are going to spend the next few days talking to people." I felt Naoto stir slightly, but pressed on. Hopefully he wouldn't be too offended by the liberties I was taking, but he had told me I could makes plans as I'd wished. Really, this was all on him – he was our leader after all. He'd just delegated authority to me. "Try to find people you don't ordinarily talk to, and ask them what they need. If they say they need something reasonable, tell them we'll get it for them. If they need help on a project, let them know we're willing to pitch in. If they've got a problem, tell them to come talk to me, and I'll see what we can do to help them out." I got a few more nods, and relaxed slightly. Nobody was pushing back, and it seemed like everybody understood the virtue of gathering intelligence. "Talk to people who have some kind of authority too – heads of families, landlords, so on and so forth. People other people respect. Tell them that we'll have food and clothes to distribute soon, and tell them to come to us if they need anything."


As the meeting started to break up, people coming to their feet and finding their coats, I added one last point to my list of instructions. "While you're out there asking questions about what people need, or what they want... Keep your ears open. If you find people who are angry, and who are ready to do something about it, let me know. We're going to need some help to see the Rising Sun again."


---------


Our expansion into the public sphere required a new location, since a secret base was only useful when it remained secret. Fortunately, Tamaki and I were able to locate a small three-story building roughly equidistant between the shattered tenement above our hideout and Ohgi and Naoto's apartment building. The structure had once been a small office building owned by an insurance company, judging by the remaining signage, but was now the home of just under one hundred souls. These unfortunates lived in the former open-plan office spaces, which been subdivided with crude walls of plywood and sheeting into crude apartments. While these "apartments" were more spacious than the typical tenement apartments in Shinjuku, the lack of any bathroom facilities beyond those built for the initial office workers, not to mention the lack of any sort of water mains sufficient to rig up showers or other cleaning stations, meant that the people living here were among the lowest on the Ghetto totem pole. They were squatters, and most had only recently been driven into Shinjuku as a result of the expansion of the Concession.


Fortunately, their newly-arrived and transitory status made it relatively easy for Tamaki, Naoto and I to "buy out" everybody present. We arrived with two of the boxes of bottles of moonshine lifted from the truck, and with our pistols visible on our hips, and within two hours the last of the vagrants had left to find other accommodations, unmarked brown bottles stowed in their meager belongings. I wished them all the best, as Shinjuku was already suffering from a high demand and low supply of housing, but we needed a location away from our hideout to further my plan for a better Shinjuku.


As soon as we secured our new location, Naoto called Kallen and set the next stage of our plan into action. The same day I'd met with the cell in the hideout, Kallen had filed paperwork with the Area 11 Administration to create the Rising Sun Benevolent Association, a non-religious charitable association dedicated to improving public health and fostering loyalty towards the Empire among the savage Elevens. The newly founded Rising Sun Benevolent Association had a PO Box headquarters address, located at the nearest post office to Ashford Academy, and was headed by a "Rivalz Cardemonde", apparently a classmate of Kallen's.


The inclusion of an Ashford Academy student in a charity focused on providing aid to Elevens was a surprise, to say the least, but Kallen had really come through for me on this. When researching the requirements for founding an officially recognized charitable organization, I had discovered that all charities must be sponsored by a noble of some rank, and must be headed by a noble as well. I assumed that this particular regulation was generally used to award positions to unwanted scions of noble houses, who would then abuse their unearned offices to embezzle funds. This discovery had practically led to me scrapping the whole idea for a charity, since the only noble connections we had were the Stadtfelds and connecting their name to a front organization for the Kozuki Organization was a tremendous risk. Fortunately, after I had complained over Naoto's phone about that self-serving bit of regulation, Kallen had asked for me to wait a day before scrapping the plan. The next day, she'd arrived at Naoto's apartment, half-completed paperwork in hand, and told me she'd found a noble who was willing to be our frontman.


I was curious about how she had recruited this "Rivalz" to our cause, but when I asked, she'd blushed furiously and left, to Naoto's great amusement. I hoped she wasn't doing anything too immoral, since that might endanger her placement at Ashford Academy, but I trusted her to know what she was doing.


Kallen was willing to fight and die for the cause. I would be willing to trust her judgment.


The long and short of it was that the newly official Rising Sun Benevolent Association was a recognized charity, with a pass to transport humanitarian aid into the Ghetto through the Eleven's only checkpoint. Kallen had taken a large quantity of the Britannian currency my truck job had netted and purchased a large amount of packed foodstuffs, multivitamins and basic over the counter medications, sanitary and hygiene goods, and used clothes. As soon as Naoto called to let her know that we had secured a location to store and distribute the goods from, Kallen had rented a small truck to haul the shipment of goods into Shinjuku. Of course, Nagata on a day work pass had to enter the Britannian Concession and drive the thing back, but with the protection of the charity's pass that hadn't been a difficult matter. The guards hadn't even required a large bribe, only taking a small "processing fee" to let the truck and its cargo proceed without trouble.


And so, four days after I had set my Shinjuku Revitalization plan into motion, Tamaki and Ohgi nailed a sign hand-painted by Naomi over the door of our "new" office, announcing the opening of the Rising Sun Benevolent Society.


---------


As soon as the sun rose over Shinjuku, a steady trickle of people began to come in through the open door of the Benevolent Society. Inoue, Ohgi, and I were inside waiting for them, standing in front of a series of tables.


"Welcome to the Rising Sun Benevolent Society." The early morning muttering cut out abruptly as I raised my voice over the din, hopping up on a table covered with neatly-folded secondhand clothing. "If you need food for yourselves or your family, please talk to Inoue."


The indigo-headed woman waved her hand, and moved to stand in front of a table heavily laden with packed boxes. Inoue and I had put them together last night, and each box contained enough food for a family of four to eat for a day, plus a small baggie of multivitamins, a few pieces of candy, and a box of matches and three tampons or sanitary napkins.


"If you need new clothes, take what you need from the tables." Kallen had found a discount location where unsold stocks of clothes from some of the cheaper chains were offloaded, as well as a number of thrift shops, and had managed to collect plenty of pants, shirts, and light jackets, with a small heap of shoes thrown in and a supply of underwear and socks. The stores had assured her that it had all been washed, and true or not, nobody here was in any condition to be choosy.


"And if you're here to work, come talk to me!" I continued. "Lunch will be provided, and there are a number of small luxury items available for those who work a full day." I held up a zippo lighter and a safety razor in one hand, and a chocolate bar and a pack of cigarettes in the other.


"Any questions?"


"Yeah, I got a question." The speaker, a shaggy-haired, bespectacled man pushed his way through the throng of Japanese milling about, and jabbed a finger at me. "Who the hell are you, and why should we listen to some Brit kid, huh?"

Can't say this comes as a surprise. Ohgi had been pretty sure someone would remark on my race, pointing out that while he knew I was Japanese, the random man off the street wouldn't take kindly to being bossed around by an apparent Britannian. I was somewhat miffed that he thought I'd just be bossing people around, instead of leading them to a mutually constructed better future, but I conceded his point. We'd then discussed possible responses to such race-based pushback, a discussion I had kicked off by demanding that he only resort to physical force as the last option, or in self-defense. Ohgi had looked somewhat confused, presumably because I'd preemptively muzzled his preferred first response, but thankfully his professionalism won out over his bloodlust.


"She's one of us." Ohgi replied, stepping forward until he was in front of the table I stood upon, and just within an arm's reach from the questioner. "She's a hafu and she grew up in Shinjuku. But if you don't want to listen to her because of her hair, then listen to me – we're here help out the people of Shinjuku, and it's all thanks to her." Ohgi's intervention was just as planned, putting an undeniably Japanese, not to mention adult and male, face on my endeavor.


And between Ohgi acting his role to perfection and Inoue's none too subtle positioning of her hand on the butt of her sidearm, that was the end of any objection. Soon, a queue had formed in front of Inoue's table, each person taking a box and getting a stamp on their left hand to show they'd received aid for the day, before moving down to the tables of clothing and taking what they needed.


Several of the younger men and women clustered around Ohgi, including the man who'd questioned my presence. After building up a sufficient number of able hands, Ohgi led them out onto the street and towards the first location on the list I'd given him, consisting of all the easily resolved issues the cell members had learned about in their first round of canvassing. The volunteers left with hand tools, scavenged plywood and lumber, a few bags of quick-dry cement in a wheelbarrow, caulk, and tarps, which they'd be putting to use sealing broken windows or holed walls in various apartments and structures in Shinjuku, preparing for the winter soon to be upon us.


I spent the remainder of the day distributing boxes and clothes with Inoue, encouraging all who came through to tell their friends and family about the Rising Sun Benevolent Society, and to come to us if they needed help with anything, anything at all. After the initial burst of visitors, the queue slowly petered out as the people who'd heard about us left with their free food and fresh clothes, which gave Inoue and I time to assemble more boxes for distribution the next day, although she, Tamaki, and Naoto would be in charge of Benevolent Society affairs tomorrow, as Ohgi, Nagata and I had other business to handle. I was sure that our quartermaster would be able to ride herd on Tamaki, and Naoto would do a fine job leading the repair crew, considering his charisma and leadership skills.


And so, as half our cell went about the benevolent activities that would build the Kozuki Organization's PR in Shinjuku, I met with the other fruit of my plan. For the first time since I had arrived, outsiders were present in our hideout. Two outsiders, to be exact, one male and one female. They sat on the couch across the table from Ohgi and I, as Nagata leaned against the wall behind them. Both were vouched for by at least one member of the cell, but hopefully knowing that they were surrounded would discourage any thoughts of betrayal.


Matsumoto Souichiro was a broad-shouldered middle-aged man, with the slightly rundown build of a muscular man gone underfed and under-worked. He'd tried to look professional for this meeting, wearing a stained white shirt and threadbare tie, but the stubble encrusting his face and the deepset dark eyes betrayed the shaky foundations under the firm exterior; this was a man desperate for a way out, a reason to keep on fighting, and a lifeline in a hopeless situation. I'd seen many eyes like that on the Rhine Front.


Mister Matsumoto had come to us with Tamaki's recommendation. Apparently, before his untimely death, Tamaki's father had been a local policeman in Shinjuku before the war. While the majority of his father's comrades had died during the brutal urban combat that had ravaged Shinjuku during the Conquest, Souichiro had been visiting family in Gunma Prefecture during the worst of it. Unfortunately for him, instead of capitalizing on his luck at being outside Shinjuku when the hammer had fallen, he had rushed back to try and find his wife and older son, who had remained in Shinjuku. Sadly, both had died in the fighting, and now Mister Matsumoto and his surviving son were stuck in Shinjuku as the Britannians began to tighten their hold on the region.


Reading between the lines of Tamaki's report, Matsumoto Souichiro was looking for some sign that his son would inherit a better world. The young man was old enough to make his own way in the world, and had managed to secure a position as an Honorary Britannian, so clearly Souichiro had done a fine job of raising him, but no doubt the empty nest had spurred him to accept Tamaki's invitation to meet with us today.


In contrast, the other prospective recruit was 19 year old Tanaka Chihiro, a former student of Ohgi's in better times. During his brief time as a teacher before the Conquest, she'd been the star student of his math class, but after the dislocating confusion of the Conquest and the closure of his school she'd disappeared into the vast refugee population. Recently, Chihiro and her surviving little sister had ended up in Shinjuku as another result of the ongoing Britannian landgrab, and she'd happened to run into Ohgi in the street.


When I'd asked my comrades to find people willing to fight, Ohgi had thought of his old student, and I could easily understand why. She was tall for a girl, just an inch shorter than Ohgi, and her somewhat mannish appearance was reinforced by her cropped hair and the male clothing she wore just as I did. It was clear that the last five years hadn't been any kinder to Chihiro than the rest of us, and her forearms and face were speckled with small burn scars from her time working in a factory to provide for her sister. She carried herself with the same guarded energy as most unaccompanied young women in Shinjuku, but Chihiro's eyes were like a furnace, full of scorching rage and hate.


Yes, I could understand why Ohgi, whose cruelty was like a fishhook hidden inside an innocuous candy, would choose to recruit this girl into our cell.


I decided to start our meeting with a thematically appropriate icebreaker. "Why are you here? Why do you want to fight Britannia and all our people's foes?"


Souichiro started to speak, stop, and badly concealed his false start with a cough. Chihiro took the initiative and plowed forward. "This world is garbage, and garbage must be burnt!" She locked eyes with me as she began her tirade, and I was struck by a memory of Arrene, of a young man looking up at me from a crowd of newly-minted refugees.


"The Britannians have taken everything from me but my sister – my parents, my friends, my boyfriend - everything! They took our home! They took everything we had! I want to take everything from them!" Chihiro continued, her words coming faster and faster in gush of verbal lava. "I want to see every single Britannian bastard who ever set foot on this damned island gutted in the street! I want to see the damned city they built on our graves burnt! I want them to suffer, just like we all have for the last five years!"


I nodded my understanding. I could very much understand that passion – if I ever got the chance, I'd love to splash about in Being X's entrails myself, as the first evil bastard to rip me away from my secure life of comfort and freedom. I could sympathize with Chihiro's wholehearted willingness to kill every Britannian who'd had a hand in the destruction of her old life.


That said, such a fire was dangerous. I remembered the fire in Schugel's eyes, his single-minded devotion to his goal despite all the losses... But for all I'd hated that bastard, in the end he'd merely been a tool in the hand of the one directing his passion. If I could do the same with Chihiro, and if I could temper her hunger for violence with discipline and control, she would be valuable indeed.


Of course, if she proved to simply be an attack dog, an uncontrolled blaze instead of a reliable controlled burn... Well, it would be a shame if it came to that. It would certainly make Ohgi sad, and I wouldn't want him as any enemy, but I wouldn't allow Chihiro's fire to burn our people, nor our secret master. Ultimately, the first provided me with power, and the later was my ticket to a better life, and I refused to be like the idiot rebels from the first years of the occupation who just increased the number of Japanese dead without any productive result.


Chihiro slowly wound down, her frantic babble gradually slowing as she began to repeat herself, and I held up a hand for silence.


"Thank you, Miss Tanaka." For all her lack of control, her passion was admirable. It reminded me of the feeling that had led me to carrying a firearm at all times, in the futile hope that I could shoot Being X whenever he next appeared. "I commend the depths of your ardor. I'm certain we can work together to once again see Japan breathe free."


I turned back to Souichiro. "And what about you, Mister Matsumoto? Why are you here?"


The former policeman shifted uncomfortably for a second, before looking up and meeting my eyes. "My son has betrayed us. I've come to avenge his shame."


As far as openings went, it was certainly dramatic. Beyond that, I suddenly realized that I had once again misunderstood the actions of those around me. I'd spent too long in Europe, and the hardcore Japanese national pride had faded somewhat in the world of my first life, but that old national pride was still strong here. In this world the Japanese Empire had never been crushed, only the republic that had followed it, and the Emperor had never had to forswear his divinity on radio in front of the nation. Worse, the Miracle of Itsukushima and the continued survival of the military hardliners in the mountains had preserved Japanese pride, despite the Conquest.


I should have known a proud Japanese man, raised in the time of Japan's greatest economic and cultural prosperity, wouldn't take pride in his son becoming an Honorary Britannian. Instead of appreciating his son's choice of a path towards some degree of security and comfort, Matsumoto Souichiro could only see a traitor. What a damned shame, I couldn't help but think, even as I sympathized with Souichiro's feelings. I didn't hold any particular grudge against the Honorary Britannians who helped keep the colonial system going, but I did resent how the choice had never really been in the cards for me.


"When... when his mother and brother died, I did my best to raise him to be a good Japanese man." Souichiro continued, every tense word laden with barely concealed pain. "I tried to teach him about the kami, about the traditions and the pride of his ancestors... But I don't think I ever really got through to him. He saw the occupation, saw the strength of the Britannians, and the death of his older brother..." Souichiro heaved a sigh, and suddenly looked even older then before, the tie hanging limply down from his neck, shoulders hunched. "He's not Japanese. He's Eleven. My only son... My Kenji... He's taken a Britannian name now, he goes by 'Keith' instead of the name his mother and I gave him... I've lost him. I've lost both my sons."


There was a moment of silence. I didn't know quite what to say to that. I'd never been a parent, thankfully, and when I'd been in the military questions of loyalty could be easily resolved, if push came to shove. But for a wayward child, a child who had seen the way the wind was blowing and made his choice... 'Sharper than a serpent's tooth' indeed...


Souichiro took a deep breath, and continued. The emotional tremble was gone from his voice, replaced with a cold, leaden weight. "I can't kill him myself. For all that he's become... I remember him as a little boy. I can't kill my own son. But... If I can't wipe away his shame by ending him, then this old man will do whatever else I can to avenge the man he would have been, if Britannia hadn't come. The Britannians killed Kenji's future when they killed his brother and mother. I want the opportunity to kill their future too."


"Thank you for telling me about your son." I began, stalling as I tried to marshal my thoughts. How do you respond to something like that? I was far from the most emotionally connected person, typically maintaining a degree of professional separation from my co-workers and comrades to preserve efficiency, but even I quailed at the calm way Souichiro discussed the possible execution of his son for... treachery, presumably? Being a product of the Japanese educational system, I understood in concept the fear of disappointing one's parents, though I'd never personally felt it in any of my lives. I'd never really feared either of my families, and no matter how desperate things had gotten after the Conquest, I never thought my mother might try to murder me.


But I'd never chosen to side with my oppressors either. Neither the Britannians nor Being X had given me any other choices than utter capitulation or resistance, and neither had successfully exploited my moments of weakness. Matsumoto Kenji, on the other hand, had joined the Britannian system willingly, and for Matsumoto Souichiro, that made him the enemy.


"For what it's worth..." I couldn't bring myself to push forward on his urge to avenge the son he'd never truly had. "For what it's worth, I believe you did your best. The time since the Conquest has been hard for us all. I don't blame you for what your son has chosen. I hope you will join us in our efforts to make a new Japan, where our sons and daughters will be able to be proud of being Japanese once again."


Souichiro simply nodded at that, and looked down at the floor. He still looked shaky, no doubt the typical Japanese attitude towards publicly expressing emotion biting hard. Chihiro, by contrast, sat stiffly on the couch, head high and fiery eyes locked onto me. It was quite disconcerting, the way she didn't blink.


I moved on from the icebreaker into the next stage of the interview process, introducing the company. "We here at the Kozuki Organization are trying to free and rebuild Japan. We are a relatively new organization and have yet to truly make an impression, but with your help, we can provide a better life to the people in Shinjuku. Our aims are to make concrete improvements in the quality of life of the Japanese, to remove the Britannian occupation from our homeland, and to re-declare the Republic of Japan once more, in that order."


Souichiro had looked back up, stern mask back in place. He and Chihiro were simply looking at me, presumably waiting for the rest of the pitch, so I continued.


"Unlike previous rebel groups in Shinjuku, we aim to take the longer view towards freeing our people. Instead of simply knifing lone soldiers in alleyways and provoking retaliation against the people of Shinjuku, we plan on building a firm powerbase in the Ghetto, from which to launch more significant actions. As it is still early-days for the Kozuki Organization, we are currently focused on removing the influence of the gangs that collaborate with the Britannians and poison our people, and providing material support for our people. We will not be immediately attacking the Britannians, you understand. I am not going to simply throw away Japanese lives without meaningful gains."


I met Souichiro's eyes, and waited for a nod of confirmation before looking to Chihiro. She looked a bit rebellious, smoldering with resentment at not immediately being unleashed on the Britannians no doubt, but she gave a reluctant nod of assent as well.


"Excellent. I'm happy to welcome you both to the Kozuki Organization. I'll introduce you to our leader, and to the rest of the cell tomorrow." I smiled the sunny smile of every HR manager and recruiter, blandly positive, and inwardly rejoiced. A small step, but our first successful recruitment is a big achievement. "Now, have either of you ever used a gun?"


Souichiro, as it turned out, had used a gun during his basic police training, but not since, as Japanese police were typically only equipped with batons. Chihiro had never touched a gun, but was incredibly eager to learn. I delegated Ohgi to start teaching them the in's and out's of firearm safety and maintenance, and left the new pair of recruits in his able hands.


Nagata and I headed out of the hideout, and began making our way towards his apartment building. He'd also found a potential recruit, but for a number of reasons this one would require a degree of special handling.


"He was an engineer, you see, before the war." As we walked, Nagata gave me a quick overview on the man we were going to see. "I'm not sure what his exact specialty was, but he was pretty highly paid. Respectable. Anyway, it must've been something to do with machinery, because he's earned his food and rent since then by repairing and maintaining stoves, hotplates, clocks... you name it, he can fix it."


"So, presumably a mechanical engineer of some type, huh?" I turned the thought over in my mind. Beyond the maintenance skills he could bring to the table, recruiting a man with an engineering skill set opened up all sorts of possible options for the organization, most specifically bomb making. Every insurgency worth its salt in the last two decades of my first life had deployed improvised explosives, and it seemed fitting to follow suit. "So why would a man with a nice safe job want to get wrapped up in our little adventure, hmm?"


"That's just it." Nagata sidestepped around a pothole, and carefully stepped over a downed power line. "He's not safe. About a year ago, he caught as stray round from a Britannian. They suspected that an apartment in the next building over was a safehouse for some group or another, and went in guns blazing. They smoked a couple of gangsters, which wasn't really what they were going for, but they also managed to hit lots of unlucky people. Including Mr. Asahara. The bullet went right through his wall and through his left shin, shattering the bone. Worse yet, it got infected – they had to amputate it below the knee."


We're recruiting a cripple? Well, I guess you don't need two legs to make bombs. "I see. That's a good reason to resent the Britannians."


Nagata nodded. "Yup. Plus, he was a bit... weird, even before that." He hesitated a bit, clearly looking for the right words. "He's a bit of a political guy, you see. He's very anti-monarchist, and whenever he gets drunk he starts ranting about the 'rights of the citizen' and so on and so forth."


"So, he's got a personal beef with Britannia for shooting his leg off, and a political beef since the Britannians rule by the divine right of kings?"


Nagata nodded. "You can see why I thought he'd be a good fit for our organization, right?"


"Absolutely." Nagata had struck gold. A political ideologue was useful, as they had a reason beyond the personal to fight, and the specialist skills this Asahara Hiyashi brought to the table were even more useful.


Now, all that was left was to make a pitch.


Asahara Hiyashi turned out to be a well-preserved man in his mid-fifties, spotted with oil and grease but with clear eyes, a well-maintained salt-and-pepper mustache and goatee, and silver wings in his otherwise still back hair. He also turned out to be an immensely infuriating person, full to the brim with an arrogance that losing his job, his property, and his leg had not diminished in the slightest. When Nagata knocked on his door, he opened it readily enough, supported on his weak side by a crutch, but refused to let us in until both Nagata and I had formally introduced ourselves and requested his permission to enter. I supposed losing a good deal of personal autonomy along with a limb probably warped his personality, but his behavior was already irritating.


The recruitment effort didn't go any better than the initial introduction had.


"Good afternoon, Mister Asahara. I came here today to ask y-"


"How's that tricky pressure cooker doing, Takeshi? Still working?" The old bastard hadn't bothered to acknowledge my introduction beyond a curt nod, and as soon as I began my pitch he cut me off and began talking to Nagata. "You know I warned you that the gasket would need replacement soon. I hope you aren't putting that off."


Nagata shot an apologetic look at me, before turning back to the engineer. "No, Mister Asahara. I still haven't found anyone willing to part with a new gasket for a reasonable price. You know how supply's getting short, with all the new guys pouring into Shinjuku."


Hiyashi snorted derisively. "You're just not looking hard enough. If you bring that damned thing back again without replacing the parts I told you to, I'm charging double."


And on and on it went. Nagata periodically tried to introduce me into the conversation, or bring up the reason why we'd come, but Hiyashi would simply bull forwards with his chosen topic, ignoring all attempts to be diverted. After forty five minutes of rambling small talk, I'd had enough.


"Are you content, tinkering with cookware and clocks, or do you want to do something to get revenge for your missing leg?"


Subtle it was not, but I'd gotten tired of waiting for this miserable old geezer to get to the point. Hopefully a bit of 'youthful impertinence' would move the conversation along before the Britannians finished exterminating us all.


Instead of the anger I'd expected from the prickly man, Hiyashi simply snorted with mild amusement and shook his head. The amusement didn't reach his eyes, though, which were just as serious and intense as they'd been since we entered his apartment.


"Save your breath. I'm not desperate enough to follow the whims of a child. Come back in ten years when you can drink, and if we're both still alive, make your pitch then." And then he simply returned to nagging Nagata about the proper way to strip copper wire from abandoned houses, an operation that Hiyashi had a surprising wealth of knowledge about.


I wasn't going to be so easily dissuaded. If an appeal to conviction would just be shot down out of hand, another tack was required. "Fine. You don't want to help the rest of us out of the goodness of your heart? How about commissions? I have Britannian cash available, or meth if you'd prefer payment in drugs instead."


At the sight of the wad of cash I brought out of my sweatshirt pocket, as well as the small baggy of crystals, the old vulture's eyes sharpened. That's the hook – self-interest. Hiyashi was a man after my own heart, in a way. Clearly, the cutthroat capitalism of pre-Conquest Japan had left a stamp on the man. And if that's the coin you need, I'm willing to pay.


After that, it was all over except for the dickering. Hiyashi readily admitted to knowing how to rig up any number of explosive devices, including remote cellphone activated devices, clockwork triggered devices, and chemical timebombs, where the ignition source was a chemical reaction delayed by a thin membrane that gradually broke down, mixing the solvents until a threshold was crossed.


We finally settled on a hefty payment, costing almost half of my remaining cash reserves and a twentieth of the amphetamines we'd secured, as well as supplying some components Hiyashi required. In exchange, the crippled engineer would provide us with five cellphone detonated pipebombs, each capable of producing an omnidirectional spray of shrapnel guaranteed to reduce anything in a twenty meter radius to chopped meat, and capable of rendering unarmored vehicles within a five meter radius inoperable.


As we shook on the deal, I looked up into Hiyashi's bespectacled eyes, and clamped down on hard on his hand with my own. "I appreciate doing business with you, Mister Asahara, and I hope we can continue to do so in the future." I kept calm, as I used my free hand to shift my sweatshirt up, revealing the pistol holstered under the baggy folds. "I hope we have a long and productive working relationship, which will be guaranteed if your devices are all that you have promised. If they aren't, however, be assured..." I felt the blood beginning to hammer in my ears as my grasp tightened. I was gratified to see a faint wince cross Hiyashi's face, quickly smoothed away. "I'll start by taking the leg the Britannians left you as payment for services rendered, and continue on until your account is paid in full."


To the old man's credit, he actually laughed at that. "I'm not an idiot, you crazy hafu. You think you're the first one to buy my work, hmm? I'm not stupid enough to try double-crossing people who buy bombs – it's bad business, and I frankly don't care what you and your pack of idiots blow up."


With a nod and a final, hard, shake, I released his hand, and dropped the down payment on the table. "Nagata will be by tomorrow to drop off the materials you requested, and we'll be back in a few days to pick up the devices and detonators, in exchange for the remainder of your pay."


As we left, I mulled over the results of the last two days. We were two recruits stronger, though both were admittedly unblooded and untrained, and had begun to buy the affections of the Shinjuku crowd. I'd also successfully negotiated five explosive devices with the possibility of further future purchases, which would undoubtedly come in handy in the near future.


Unfortunately, not only had we expended virtually all of the income and resources acquired from the truck hijacking, I had also resorted to strong-arm tactics with Mister Asahara. Not only did that leave a bad taste in my mouth, but it also potentially planted a seed that could flower into open resentment in due time. I'd need to find some way to both replenish the cell's depleted coffers, and nip any problems stemming from a disgruntled contractor with a dangerous skill set and an abrasive personality. Pity I can't simply cut off his funding, like I did with Schugel.


Fortunately, I already had a target in mind that would serve as both a source of income and a convenient testing ground for Asahara's products. Ideally, my next plan would both begin the process of removing the gangs from the Shinjuku Ghetto, and would give me a chance to thoroughly blood all members of the cell. The first kill is always the hardest, so it's kinder to them to ensure it happens in a reasonably straightforward situation, I reasoned. A minimum of danger, and a straightforward moral situation – it's the best of both worlds. Hopefully...

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 10: A Market Trip

(AN: A big thank you to Siatru for beta reading this chapter, and for the input of the folks on the Tanya Writers Discord. Also, it should go without saying, but I do not endorse or in any way support acts of terrorism or the execution of injured combatants.)


It was Tuesday, and for my next plan to work, the Kozuki Organization needed to be ready by Saturday. We had four days. Four days to get Souichiro and Chihiro up to scratch... To get the pipe bombs from Asahara... Four days until the market.


Inoue had been pulling double duty lately as both the organization's logistics officer and as something of an intelligence officer. I recognized it was outside of her core competencies, not to mention the scope of her role as quartermaster, but so far she'd managed to pull through while still doing most of the legwork to keep the Rising Sun Benevolent Association moving. I'd been very impressed by the depth of her knowledge when she and Ohgi had briefed me on the Shinjuku black market scene, so two days ago I had asked her to find out where the next weekly gang-hosted market would be hosted, and by whom. Only a single day later, she'd arrived at Ohgi and Naoto's apartment and briefed me. It's such a pleasure to have competent coworkers.


Apparently, the Kokuryu-kai, freshly victorious over a pair of smaller street gangs, were hosting the next market on the coming Saturday, in the ruins of the Shinjuku-gyoemmae Station. As per normal, the hosting gang would guarantee the safety of the attendees and provide security, and would get to charge a gate fee plus a tax on all business conducted during the market. Hosting these markets, according to Inoue, was of incredible importance to the gangs because it gave them both a source of funding and a chance to get first pick of the wares, as well as prestige with their competitors. It was also a way to show off to potential employers, as frequently representatives from out of town criminal syndicates and factors for various shady Britannian interests would attend.


Of particular interest to me was the fragility of the foundation of this new, rising gang. The Kokuryu-kai had just swallowed up a significant amount of territory, proving their strength, but were still in the process of fully consolidating their new conquests. The consolidation process had temporarily diluted their ability to project power or actively defend all of their territory. This combination of a bloated portfolio of holdings coupled with an apparent inability to vigorously fight off challengers had led other gangs to smell blood in the water, and small skirmishes had already been fought as rival gangs probed for openings. As a result, the Kokuryu-kai had volunteered to host this market as a display of strength and prestige, which meant that anything going wrong would confirm the impression of weakness and had the potential of kicking off a new round of gang warfare.


To sweeten the pot even further, the particular focus of this market would be arms and ammunition sales. Each week, the various gangs typically hosted markets that had particular focuses – that way, buyers could easily connect with vendors carrying the goods they were looking for, and could compare the various wares at hand. Having these focused markets also made things easier for the various gangs and independent players that were selling products; catering to specific markets would make it easier to tailor their inventories, and would give vendors the opportunity to gather intelligence on their competitors. While weapons wouldn't be the only wares available, there would be an abundance of arms and ammunition that could be seized and added to our growing arsenal, not to mention the Britannian currency and drugs that the gangs used as their preferred mediums of exchange.


I had honestly been surprised to learn how structured the Shinjuku underworld was, at least in this way, but I supposed it made business easier for everybody to have common, centralized exchanges with mutually understood rules. Fortunately for us, this underground infrastructure also made it possible to attack a medium-to-big street gang by essentially pinning them down in a vulnerable spot, at a defined location and time, giving us the opportunity to prepare the ground and tactical approach well in advance. While risky for a number of reasons, a successful attack on one of these markets could lead to all kinds of possible benefits for our organization. Besides the possible spoils, the market was an ideal target because it presented a potential mass casualty opportunity with a minimum of collateral damage. This wasn't a public market; it was invite-only, so the only people likely to be in attendance were gangsters or people who had gotten in bed with gangsters. It also was neither a slave market nor a brothel, so we wouldn't need to worry about hostages being caught in the crossfire.


Everyone who attended that market would be a fair and easily justifiable target, and everything we took would be a legitimate spoil of war. An ideal operation for a rebel organization that had yet to be truly blooded.


Of course, there would be repercussions for an attack like the one I was planning, and I had no intention of letting any of the fallout touch the Kozuki Organization. We were too small in number to truly fight the gangs, so I'd have to find a scapegoat to pin the responsibility for this attack on. Done correctly, the infuriated gangs would blame whoever I chose as our fall guy, and our cell would remain unknown and unconnected to the attack. Ideally, the gangs would blame and attack each other, causing further chaos to ripple out into the ranks of my enemies and sowing the seeds for future false-flag attacks.


---------


And so, four days of intense preparation began. Or, at least, intense preparation for some - Naoto, along with Inoue and Tamaki, took over the task of operating the Rising Sun Benevolent Association's day to day work. Those lucky bastards spent the four days engaged in productive and constructive work, handing out food and filling in potholes.


After I'd filled her in, Kallen had agreed to keep an ear open at Ashford, and had found a potential scapegoat to offload responsibility onto in the form of a Lord Kewell Soresi. A captain in the Britannian Knightmare Corps, Lord Kewell was freshly transferred from the Britannian Homeland to Area 11 and had already gained a prickly reputation, according to the daughter of a Britannian officer who enjoyed playing tennis and had a habit of blabbering whenever she was on the court.


Apparently, Lord Kewell was a minor unlanded and untitled noble, a member of a small cadet branch of a dynasty that controlled the area around what had been Quebec in my first life. More importantly, Kewell was a member of a faction of the Britannian military known as the 'Purists', who apparently were dogmatically racist even by the standards of Britannains. Their central plank seemed to be a general disdain for Numbers, and they supported efforts to drive Honorary Britannians and Britannians of mixed heritage out of the military. The faction the man represented was known for casual violence, ham handed tactics, and for going off the reservation on independent missions without bothering to seek approval from the official chain of command. Combined with the man's rumored haughty personality and penchant for explosive violence, Kewell would be an ideal scapegoat.


As soon as Kallen let me know about him, I had her start typing up an 'official notice' from the Purist Faction claiming responsibility for the 'attack upon the subhuman criminal gathering', and claiming that the attack was retaliation for the robbery of a Britannian military storage facility. The notice ended with Lord Kewell Soresi's name, printed at the bottom and identifying him as the local head and spokesman for the Purist Faction. Kallen had even managed to find a copy of a press release the Purists had published a few years ago denouncing the appointment of an officer of mixed heritage to command the Buenos Aires garrison, and had managed to edit her fraudulent notice to have the same style and appearance as the press notice. While it still wouldn't look like the real deal to anybody with much first-hand experience with military or legal documentation, I was positive it would dupe at least some of the dumber gangsters.


Between coordinating all the other efforts, Ohgi and I trained Chihiro and Souichiro as best we could. Personally, I wasn't expecting much from them this time around – not because either lacked the passion or desire to fight, they were both hateful battle maniacs lusting for violence – but because a few days of training just wasn't enough to develop even a minimal degree of skill. Still, everybody has to start somewhere, and having two extra guns backing us when the plan inevitably went wrong could be useful. Ohgi and I did our best to improve their accuracy and speed with the military surplus coilgun pistols, switching to the basics of knife fighting when the recruits began to flag and their shots started going wild, and leading them on short jogs when the CQC drills grew stale.


Ultimately, while neither were up to the admittedly high standards of the 203rd, both made solid gains in the three and a half days of training I was able to give them. Chihiro had already begun to pick up the rapid speed necessary for urban combat, and could draw, aim, and shoot her pistol in an acceptably short time; unfortunately, her accuracy was entirely unacceptable. She tended to blaze through her ammunition, rapidly pumping rounds downrange but only managing three or four hits from each thirteen round magazine on a stationary target before having to stop and reload. Souichiro, by contrast, could reliably get at least ten hits on his target before reloading, but moved and aimed painfully slowly, far too slowly to be useful or responsive in real combat. Both were better at close quarters combat, Souichiro benefiting from his police training and Chihiro drawing strength from her harnessed rage, but CQC tended to be of limited utility when your opponents were more than a foot or so away.


"They've got some good potential – especially your prized pupil." I remarked to Ohgi, as we made our way back to the apartment after another long evening of watching our two trainees practice with their newly issued pistols. "It's a pity we're having to shortchange them with this crash-course, instead of some proper training."


Ohgi had looked contemplative at that, before asking me what I'd meant by 'proper training'. What followed was a remarkably pleasant conversation about educational methods, as I drew on my memories of training the 203rd and floated ideas past him, and he proposed various changes or alterations inspired by his teaching skills and experience. He seemed to tend towards coddling his students more often than I'd have thought, considering both his personal inclinations and my vague memories of my primary schooling back in my first life, but we could both agree that the teachers from the Shinjuku School for Elevens were absolute incompetents lacking any proper teaching methods. It was a nice break from planning bombings and the like, and I hoped I'd be able to focus on such constructive questions at some point in the future.


"You do?" The shocked tone of the reply jolted me back to awareness, and I cursed internally as I turned and looked up at Ohgi. I got too comfortable talking shop! I forgot who I was talking to! Of course a battle maniac with a taste for inflicting pain would be shocked by my desire to add value to society instead of destroying it!


"I'm glad to hear that. I think you might make a good teacher someday, Tanya." My breath caught in my throat, and I realized Ohgi was smiling down at me, without any obvious hint of recrimination. In fact, he looked... proud? Of course, he was a teacher before he was a fighter – he has an eye for the future. That type of man is always happy to see people following in their footsteps. I wondered if he'd be equally enthusiastic about imparting every bit of his sadistic edge to his students as well, and considered bringing in someone else to help me train the new recruits – the last thing I needed was more sadists in our organization who would love nothing more than to maximize the number of war crimes we committed. No, he's too good of a teacher. Instructing the recruits is the best use of his skill set. Of course, then he patted my head as we continued on our way, and I lost my train of thought as I forced his hand away from my already unruly hair. The bastard just laughed at my outrage, and I longed for an easily-shelled pillbox to force him into.


Nagata helped out at the Benevolent Association for the first day, before vanishing into Mister Asahara's apartment building until Friday afternoon, returning to the hideout with a knapsack full of very well-padded and carefully packed homemade explosives. They were things of beauty – each about a foot in length, fashioned from steel water pipes whose exteriors had been deliberately roughened to reduce reflection and improve grip. Each had steel caps at each end, which had been carefully fixed into place with waterproof caulk, sealing the explosives into the pipe and waterproofing the device. Each device also had a number stenciled onto it in black paint, from one to five. Curiously, there weren't any obvious exterior detonators, which I asked Nagata about.


"First of all, here, take this." Nagata handed over a folded piece of paper. "It's the numbers that will activate each of the bombs in order. Hopefully no telemarketer tries them – they'll detonate as soon as the call connects." He chuckled weakly at the thought, and shivered slightly. I couldn't really blame him – I could only assume that carrying a backpack full of bombs across Shinjuku that could detonate at any moment would be quite nerve-wracking. "Anyway, there's about half of a disassembled phone inside each of these things, along with three hundred steel flechettes. Mister Asahara guarantees that anybody within fifty meters will die, unless they're behind cover, and anybody within a hundred and fifty meters is probably going to die too."


Hmm... The Shinjuku-gyoemmae Station's two platforms are about two hundred meters long... "Well, I guess that's about as good as we can reasonably ask for." I replied, opening up the paper and checking that all five phone numbers were clearly legible. "I suppose we'll just have to make sure they overlap." I looked up from the paper and smiled at Nagata. "Good work putting us in contact with Mister Asahara, Nagata. This plan wouldn't be possible without you." He smiled back at me, although he seemed unaccountably nervous. Of course he is! I internally scolded myself as I carefully tucked the backpack full of bombs on a shelf in the armory, He just carried enough anti-personnel explosives across a city to turn everybody in a block around him into well-done hamburger! I hoped his nerve wouldn't fail him when it came time for the actual mission, but I'd give him a break and not make him handle bombs again. At least, not for the duration of the mission. There's always tomorrow...


---------


And soon, it was Friday night, and time for the first active step in the execution stage of our mission. Ohgi, Naoto and I had crept our way up to the top remaining floor of a heavily damaged office building near the station earlier that afternoon, and waited there as a handful of gang members had gone down into the station and rousted the colony of squatters sheltering from the bitterly cold winds in the comparative warmth of the tunnels. We watched for about an hour as the men four stories below went into and came out of the station, hauling garbage away and carrying a variety of collapsible tables and chairs down into the station. Eventually, the activity slowed to a crawl and the majority of the gangsters headed off down the street, presumably to find the nearest warm room to den up in with a bottle of rotgut or three. The lone remaining gang member took up a position in front of the tag plastered on the wall of the above-ground station entrance, the black circle and white claw of the Kokuryu-kai warning passersby to steer clear of the otherwise inviting shelter from the wind. The guard looked like he wanted to take advantage of that shelter himself, as he huddled into himself, shivering as another wintry gust swept down. Presumably, his job was to ward off any wandering vagrants rather than keeping a serious guard on the station itself, as the eastern secondary staircase was left entirely unguarded. He was too busy shivering to notice a trio of bundled up figures carrying backpacks cross the road a block down from his location, and so the first stage of the night's skulduggery was complete.


It rapidly became clear why the eastern staircase had been left unguarded. As we crept down the filthy and rubble-choked stairs of the secondary entrance, I realized that the station was already structurally unsound. The ceiling had collapsed in several parts of the staircase, and we had to clamber over piles of rubble in several spots just to get down the stairs and into the station. When we finally reached the platforms themselves, we discovered that most of the southern side of the station, the old Platform 2, had collapsed at some point in the past as well. The office building that had stood directly on top of Shinjuku-gyoemmae Station had taken a major hit at some point, and during its collapse the southern and western parts of the station had been filled with rubble from the half-destroyed structure. The west end of the tunnel was equally choked with rubble, reducing the five original ways of egress from the station down to three, two if you discounted the mostly blocked staircase.


Fortunately for us, the tables and chairs we'd watched the gangsters diligently haul down into the station earlier were arranged around the center of the platform, just past the lobby where the shattered remains of ticket machines were still bolted to the wall. Even more fortunately, despite the many loads of assorted trash we'd watched the gang members haul away, the subway station was still fairly messy. It looked like every Japanese who'd sheltered here in the last five years had left something behind, and the reek of feces and rotting garbage hung heavily in the fetid air of the station. I could hear rats scuttling down over the old tracks and on the darkened platform, and smiled slightly. How nostalgic! It's just like the Rhine Front, minus the artillery.


Neither Naoto nor Ohgi appeared any more bothered by the mess than I was. Naoto might be of noble stock, but he'd lived in the Ghetto for quite a while now, while Ohgi was just as much of a creature of the Ghetto as I was, in his own way. Instead of commenting on the filth, the two men opened Ohgi's backpack and began to unfold a collapsible ladder purchased by Rising Sun Benevolent Association. I'd never encountered that particular gadget during my first life, but as soon as I'd seen it in a catalog of construction supplies I'd immediately added it to the purchase list. Sturdy and lightweight, the ladder would be invaluable for planting explosives in the one direction that I as a former aerial mage knew people always forget to look – up.


The ceiling had once been metal panels, lined with lights and padded with acoustic muffling. Now, the previously hidden utility space gaped open for the most part, with isolated panels clinging on at various locations. Everything was coated in soot from campfires, torches, improvised ovens, and lamps. Much of the old lighting wiring had been stripped away at some point, as had some of the old fire suppression water distribution pipes, but plenty still remained to provide camouflage for Mister Asahara's products. Using rough twine, we carefully hung two of the pipe bombs from the old pipes over the area where the majority of the tables were set up, roughly thirty meters apart. As soon as the two men had a pipe tied in place, I climbed up and carefully rubbed some of the same soot that coated the exposed plumbing over the twine and the pipes until they blended in with the rest of the ancient plumbing.


After securing the first two bombs to the ceiling, we repeated the process in the antechamber room at the base of the main staircase, where the station office and turnstiles had once been. This area had plenty of heavily rotted acoustic tiles still in place, which made concealing the bomb itself easier but hiding evidence of our activities harder. After Naoto barely managed to catch a tile that unexpectedly crumbled at a touch, causing the damned thing to disintegrate even further, we had to spend a frustratingly long time policing up all the acoustic tile crumbs and rearranging garbage to hide the scuff marks where we'd been forced to use our hands to sweep up all the fragments.


The final two bombs would be placed at ground level, concealed in garbage at either end of the platform area. Due to the rubble covering the northwestern region of the station, in practice the western floor-level bomb would be about forty meters away from western hanging bomb, while the eastern floor-level bomb would be roughly fifty meters east-southeast from the eastern hanging bomb. The abundant garbage made it easy to conceal the pipe bombs, and at my direction Ohgi and Naoto carefully used rubble to angle the devices towards the prospective center of the market. I added a further layer of rubble behind and slight above the bombs as well before we artfully draped garbage over them, hoping to produce something of a claymore effect and channel the majority of the blast towards the most likely enemy location rather than the ruined Platform 2.


If Mister Asahara had been good to his word, and his estimations of the effective range of the devices were accurate, the market should be hit simultaneously by two vertical and two horizontal bursts of flechettes and shrapnel, with the guaranteed kill ranges of the two vertical spheres overlapping by twenty meters over the most densely populated area and the the horizontal spheres overlapping with the edges of the vertical spheres. A few seconds later, the pipe bomb concealed in the much smaller antechamber should pulp anybody unfortunate enough to be inside when the detonator is activated, hopefully killing any guards drawn inside by the initial blasts, or any survivors fleeing from the main platform area.


Of course, all of this relied on the Kokuryu-kai being either incompetent or arrogant enough to not sweep for bombs again tomorrow morning, but I was reasonably confident that we'd hidden the bombs well enough to evade the disinterested and unprofessional gaze of whatever low-level gangster got stuck with the scut work. And so, Ohgi, Naoto and I carefully policed up all of our gear and snuck back out the eastern stairway, taking care to leave the rubble as undisturbed as possible, and vanished into the night.


---------


The next morning, Kallen knocked on the apartment door bright and early, come to drop off the 'claim' she'd faked up. Naoto quickly ushered her inside, giving her a brief one armed hug as she passed. After tolerating this for a moment, Kallen squirmed free of her brother and made a beeline towards me. The radiant smile on her face was somewhat inappropriate, considering the bloody work ahead for us today, as was her vest, short-shorts, and leg warmer ensemble, but I couldn't resist returning her smile. This damned girl has enough charisma to raise an army – she and her brother both do. I idly wondered if the propaganda about the natural superiority of nobles didn't have a grain of truth. Perhaps the state Social Darwinism is backed up with eugenics?


I quickly shook that tangent away and returned to the task at hand, quickly reviewing the document Kallen handed over. It looked just as good as the pictures she'd sent during the editing process, and far more authentic than I'd expected. This sort of above-expectations work by an employee requires praise and incentivization.


"This is some good work, Kallen." I began, warmly smiling at the older girl. Alright, that's the praise handled... but how to incentivize her? What are her levers? Money was out of the question – I didn't have any funds of my own, and as a noble Kallen already had plenty of money. Suddenly, the answer dawned on me. Respect and inclusion. She wants to be part of the cell, and not just as an intelligence asset. She's her brother's sister – she wants to kill and to conquer just as much as he does.


I hastily considered her skills, aware of the precious seconds passing as my smile became steadily more fixed. She's good with her knife, and she's an accurate and quick shooter. She's athletic, and probably faster than me unless I pour all my energy into my enhancement suite. Overall, more qualified to help out today than either Chihiro or Souichiro – or Inoue for that matter.


"Kallen, you'll be coming with us on today's mission." Incentive delivered. Now I just had to fast-talk my way through the reasons why a teenager should come along with us into battle. "We'll need all hands on deck today, and you're a better shot than either of our two new recruits." Good start, but not enough. Naoto's not going to be happy about this. "We're going to need as many people as possible to carry off whatever we can salvage from the market. I'll get another go-pack together."


The go-packs were a number of canvas backpacks Kallen had found in some warehouse, and thrown into the donated clothing for Rising Sun Benevolent Association. While prepping for this mission, I'd retrieved them and stocked each with the costume for the day: a knit cap, a pair of latex gloves, swimming goggles, a surgical mask, and the top of a set of hospital scrubs. The medical supplies had been smuggled into Shinjuku as part of the humanitarian aid, and would help hide our identities while being instantly disposable. We would change into our gear in the same ruin Ohgi, Naoto and I had used as an observation post last night, and the empty backpacks would serve as containers for whatever spoils we could pillage.


"Absolutely not!" Naoto yelled, before quickly getting control of himself and continuing in a quieter if no less fervent tone. "Kallen doesn't need to come with us on this mission, Tanya." He paused for a moment, clearly doing the same quick thinking I'd done to come up with reasons for my course of action. "You said it yourself – she's a valuable asset at Ashford, and there's no reason to risk her safety here in Shinjuku."


I began to reply to Naoto, but stopped. Do I really want to argue with my boss? As much as he might trust me, that's probably a step too far. Especially in front of other people... Ohgi looked acutely uncomfortable, his lips pressed together tightly enough to start going white, and Kallen looked... furious. Perhaps I don't have to...


"You're not gonna hold me back, Big Bro!" Fortunately, the younger Kozuki didn't yell, so the neighbors probably weren't aware of the brewing spat, instead hissing her words like a cobra. "I have the right to fight for my country too! It's all for a free Japan – everything we do!"


"I'm not going to let you throw your life away for nothing, Kallen!"


"You're not Dad! Tanya said I was a good fighter, and she'd know – she was there when I had to fight, Big Bro!"


Realizing that this family argument was about to get ugly, I decided to try sweet reason. "Kallen, Naoto has every right to be concerned about you – he's family, and has at the very least an emotional investment in your well-being. He also has a good point about your value as an intelligence asset."


Kallen wheeled on me with an expression of betrayal, but I was already turning towards Naoto, letting my perspective drop into the emotional detachment I'd always tried to maintain during combat. "Naoto, Kallen has to come with us. Every other member of the cell is going to be risking their lives today – if you protect her, you'll mark her out as different. She will never truly be one of us unless she shares the same risks."


Based on my three lives' worth of experience, I knew that people tend to prefer emotion to logic. Unfortunately for everybody, when push came to shove most people would follow an emotionally fulfilling argument over a logically superior argument. However, I had first-hand experience with Naoto taking the logical path when it was offered to him, and he had a knack for surprising me by not taking the angry, emotional path that I'd expect from a terrorist leader. I hoped my calm tone and reasonable appeal would convince him to put aside his familial concerns.


Naoto began to retort, looked from Kallen to me and back again, and visibly swallowed his words with a sigh before trying again. "Look, I get that, Tanya, but..."


"Big Bro..." The anger had left Kallen's voice, and she walked across the room to her brother, putting a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. You did a great job looking after Mom and I when I was a kid, but... I'm grown up now, y'know?"


Naoto let out a wet sound that was half-chuckle, half-sob, and hugged his sister close to him. "All grown up, huh? Kallen... you're fifteen. You should go back to your school. Have fun with your friends. Enjoy your life, just for a bit." He let out another sob, and rested his forehead on top of Kallen's head. "You've got a chance. You don't need to be here."


I wanted to look away from the emotional display, but I found that I couldn't. The prickling in my eyes and the sick feeling roiling in my gut told me that I'd caused this, and I supposed I had, but it was too late to take back now. Besides, I told myself, I was right. Kallen is a good fighter, and keeping her safe on a shelf would mark her out as different. I might have been right about that, but I still felt like scum. In some small way, I'd just helped bring another child into a battle, just like the Empire had once done to me. Am I really so lonely that I'm willing to drag another child with me into the mess?


Finally, the moment passed as Naoto spoke again, this time his voice was somewhat clearer. "Alright. I can see you've made your mind up. If I can't convince you to just keep being a spy, then I guess you can come with us." He put his hands on Kallen's shoulders, and gently pushed her away. "You'd better come home safe, Kallen. If anything happens to you, Mom's never gonna forgive me."


Sensing the touching moment was finally ending, Ohgi and I quickly took the opportunity to grab our packs and start heading out the door, leaving the Kozukis to catch up. We'd all be meeting at the hideout anyway, and I needed to get gear for Kallen and a pistol together before we could head out anyway.


---------


The Kozukis caught up quickly, and a short time later we met the rest of the cell at the hideout. Soon, Kallen had an identical backpack as the rest of us, and we began moving in a loose strung-out group to our jump off point. Everybody walked along quietly, trying to look generally unassuming as we passed through the crowded Shinjuku streets. I was pleased to see that nobody looked overly troubled by the prospect of what we were about to do, and refocused on the road ahead. It'd be bad to trip over a random cinder block and twist an ankle on the way to a mission. The hand that suddenly landed on my shoulder was a complete shock, and I was halfway through firing up my enhancement suite before I realized it was Naoto standing beside me. Before I could get a word out, he'd already begun dragging me to the side of the road, and after a quick moment of indecision I decided to follow him. No need to buck the chain of command immediately before we get to work.


The "conversation" was as short and unpleasant as I'd feared.


"Tanya, my sister's going to risk her life today, and it's partially my responsibility and partially yours." Well, I'm glad he didn't blame me for everything. He's still the leader, after all. It's his call, even if I did open the door. "You think in terms of missions, right? In terms of objectives, and goals, and all that? I know you do. Well, here's an objective just for you: Kallen gets home alive, safe and sound. Hopefully in one piece. Got it?" Just like every boss, the unreasonable demands always come. I'm not trying to get her killed – she's a valuable colleague! I'm not just playing around here. "Look, you're a smart girl – scary smart, in fact. I've got no idea how you know everything you know, or do everything you do, but I don't care. You clearly care about other people, and you've already shown that you can be responsible – take responsibility again, okay? This is your plan, and knowing you I'm sure it'll be effective. Just remember that a leader is responsible for the well-being of his, or her, followers. Got it?" Of course I understand the importance of maintaining human resources. I'm not Being X, just throwing people into jobs well outside their core competencies without consent ! "You're responsible for Kallen today, okay? Get her home safe. I don't know what I'll do if... something happens to her."


I'd hoped he wouldn't feel the need to threaten me. I was doing my best to make sure everybody came home alive at the end of the day already, and I'd done everything in my power to advance his and his father's plans... Except I'd just potentially endangered their heir, the queen in waiting if Lord Stadtfeld managed to usurp the real power of the Britannian Administration of Area 11. In light of that, not to mention the stress all big brothers are stereotypically saddled with in regards to their younger siblings, I could easily forgive a threat or two. Dammit, why the hell did I shoot myself in the foot?! I raged at myself, suddenly appalled at my poor decision making. I'd impulsively invited Kallen to join our murderous little adventure, and in doing so had squandered all the hard-won trust I'd built up. I should've just left well enough alone. Why the hell did I do something so stupid?


For the first time in a while, I truly did feel my physical age. For my own stupid emotional needs, my desire to impress a girl I wanted to be friends with, I'd pissed away all of my credibility. All I could do is nod numbly to Naoto and slump back off into the crowd of humanity, no longer needing to mimic the typically dejected stance of the typical Shinjuku Ghetto dweller. It wasn't until I was in sight of the building we'd be using as our jump-off point that I managed to get my head back into the game. I had a major act of terrorism to pull off and a market to raid. I could beat myself up over my stupid, hormonal, juvenile choices later.


---------


"Alright, once more from the top:" I surveyed the crowd of masked figures before me, nodding in satisfaction at how completely their features were obscured. Between the masks, the goggles, and the caps, even the incredibly distinctive Kozuki red hair was out of sight. Hopefully it'll be enough. "Kallen, Tamaki, and I will be Unit 1. Naoto, Nagata, and Inoue are Unit 2. Ohgi, Souichiro, and Chihiro are Unit 3. As soon as the bombs go off, Unit 1 will sprint ahead and hit the outside guards while they're still surprised by the explosion. We'll incapacitate them as quickly as possible and head down the stairs. Unit 2 will follow, and Unit 3 will ensure all guards are dead and communication devices smashed before following us. Once we hit the platform, Unit 1 will go left, Unit 2 will go right, and Unit 3 will give back up to whoever needs it."


I paused for a moment, looking around to see if anybody's body language looked confused. Chihiro looked so fired up she was practically trembling with excess energy, and I decided to speed up the rest of my last-minute prep session. Wouldn't want her to go off to early. "Hit anyone still standing first, and then make sure everyone on the ground is really dead. We don't want any survivors who can identify us or call for help. We take as much as we can carry, starting with Britannian currency and other money makers, then ammunition for the assault rifles, ammunition for the pistols, and finally any intact weapons you can stow in your backpack. We'll head up the east stairwell if it's still clear, or down the tunnel if not. As soon as we get away from the station, ditch the costume and split up. We'll all meet back up at the hideout."


Another chorus of grim nods were the only response, any expressions of disgust or horror hidden away from view by the masks and goggles. Everyone barring Kallen had known this plan for the last four days, but I was both pleased and appalled that nobody had questioned my plan. This was terrorism, and the execution of the wounded by itself was a war crime in the eyes of any civilized country. But this isn't a civilized country. This is Area 11, and Britannia killed civilization here 5 years ago.


"Alright, everybody pair up with a buddy and check your buddy's equipment. Take a minute and make sure everything's ready to go." Each of my urban insurgents was equipped with a small arsenal – each had a 7mm coilgun pistol, three extra magazines, a knife, a flashlight, and two fragmentation grenades from that stash Naoto had stolen so long ago. Inoue, Ohgi and I all carried small first aid kits in our packs as well – not enough to save a life, but enough to stem the bleeding, hopefully.


As the flurry of activity slowed to a halt, I moved into my final motivational speech, doing my best to summon my inner battle maniac persona to give a hint of sincerity to the presentation. "Comrades," the word felt wrong in my mouth, but it seemed like the most accurate term for the other members of the cell. "This is not the end for us or for our war, this is the beginning. We are taking our first major step against the vermin that gnaw at the vulnerable bellies and tender wounds of our families and friends, and who help the Britannian invaders in a myriad of small ways at the expense of our own."


A pause to let them remember why we were about to kill these men and women. Everybody nodded, clearly on board with killing. Considering how much I'd hammered home that the gangs were parasites sucking the life out of Shinjuku in the last few days, that was hardly a surprise.


"I'm not asking you to enjoy this, but I am asking you to follow me. Do not feel sorry for these people – show them no mercy, for I promise that they will show none to any of us if this doesn't work. Every one of those criminals could have found a way to help our people, just as we have, but they chose to grow fat off the suffering of others. By removing the gangs from Shinjuku, we improve the lives of every single innocent trapped in this cauldron of misery by the Britannians."


Ignore the fact that many of those gangsters had joined up just to get a stable source of food, and ignore the fact that so many of them were addicted to the same drugs they peddled to the rest of us. They'd made their choice.


Looking at the eight other men and women in the room, I considered giving them an out, a chance to back out with honor, perhaps an opportunity for some flicker of respect for the common humanity of all to come to the fore, but quickly decided against it. Just like our victims, they'd made their choice to be here. I hadn't forced anyone to be here – there were no draftees in this particular trench, only volunteers. I'd only be insulting them and their Japanese honor by saying they could leave and I'd be happy to let them walk.


I could feel Naoto's eyes on me as I continued. Don't worry, I don't want any of you to die either. "Be careful out there – watch out for yourselves, and for your comrades. We walk the path of righteousness – and I hope to have the privilege of congratulating each of you back at the hideout in a few hours for a job well done." I took a moment to look around, and meet each pair of goggles looking back at me, nodding at each of them.


Internally, I mostly just felt numb. I was back in the company of battle maniacs again, well and truly. None of them had spoken out, none of them had so much as flinched. And just like them, I too had no choice at this point. I was committed, and there was no going back. The only way to my cushy position in the rear was to slog through everything the world threw at me until I could finally collapse onto a generously upholstered office chair. Under my sense of numbness, I felt a pulse of seething emotion, one I couldn't quite identify. But the thought of the flechettes that were about to scythe through the crowded station below us made that roiling pool of emotion shudder with bestial satisfaction. Finally... I'm not going to be the victim. Never again – you hear me, Being X? - Never again.


Naoto stepped forward, and I stepped back, conceding the emotional center of the group to him. He looked from face to face, goggles to goggles, and lifted his up to reveal his own eyes. He looked vaguely ridiculous, holding the swim goggles away from his face, but his gaze was serious, and I could feel the pull of his charisma just as much as every other person in the room, all unconsciously leaning inwards, waiting for what our leader had to say.


"First, let me say that I am very proud of each and every one of you. We've all worked hard to make Tanya's plan work, and it's thanks to each of your efforts that we're about to take a great leap forward. This is far and away the most important mission we've had to date, and it's going to change everything for us if we pull it off." I thought that was a bit much, but I could understand why such claims would pump up the members of our little guerrilla band. Everybody likes feeling important, after all, even though this small act of mass terrorism was small potatoes to actually fighting the Britannians. As far as pre-battle speeches went, I'd heard far worse. Weiss's comment before the Legadonian invasion, 'well, hopefully we won't all die.' holding a special place of shame in my heart.


Unfortunately, Naoto kept talking and my satisfaction with his oratory vanished. "We walk a righteous path, the path of the gods, the path of kami." My stomach began to sink at the words, and a terrible premonition swept over me. Did that bastard reach out in Naoto's dreams, like what happened to Schugel? I crainned my head, trying to get a clear sight of his face and cursing myself for the idea of masking up. Fortunately, Naoto's expression didn't appear twisted in religious ecstasy; he looked calm and collected as he continued his speech. "Bishamon and Amaterasu are with us today, as we unleash fire and suffering on the running dogs of Britannia. We will bring a small piece of the cleansing fire of her Sun down into Shinjuku today, and burn away the rot that bites deep into the bones of our people." This... this is a sermon! A sermon declaring holy war!


Honestly, I should have expected something like this. People need an excuse to give in to their savagery, and while petty gain and personal beefs were enough for an odd murder or robbery a bombing campaign presumably required something a bit more substantial. Dammit! I knew I should have introduced an ideological program! I'd hoped the outline of objectives I'd given our new recruits, coupled with the focus on providing for the people here and now would have headed this off at the pass, but somehow religion had wriggled its way even into the agnostic minds of my countrymen. Gods are even harder to keep out than cats… But if this is what it takes to get them fired up… As long as nobody started proclaiming the glories of Being X personally, I supposed I could swallow it as a means to an end. At least both sides won't be claiming the same god is siding with them, I suppose.


After about a minute of further exhortations, Naoto wound down with a final message I could get behind. "...And now, let's make sure we can all go home tonight, and none of them can. For Japan!"


"For Japan!" We murmured back, no less fervent for how quiet we were. Finally, it's time.


---------


We left the building at speed, walking with a purpose as a group, moving straight down the street past the crumbling shells of buildings. Civilians took one look at us, at our hidden faces and clearly visible guns, and bolted. As the waves of people turning, looking, and fleeing began to ripple out, I raised my hand, the sign for Ohgi, Naoto, Nagata, and Inoue to press the 'dial' button on their burner phones, calling the numbers they'd carefully entered into their phones as we left the building.


Even from a block away, the sound was unmistakable, and immediately whisked me back to the Rhine. The sound was higher pitched than the detonations of artillery shells, but an explosion is an explosion. And 3... 2... 1... My thumb jabbed down on my own disposable cell phone, and the echo of a secondary explosion burst into the street as I shoved the phone into a pocket.


As planned, Unit 1 – Kallen, Tamaki, and I – immediately drew our pistols and began sprinting. There'd be a limited window of opportunity to get in close before the surviving guards figured out what had happened, and we needed to get as close as possible before we opened fire. It's going to be all about keeping the momentum up.


My heart thundered in my ears as my magic strengthened my legs, barely letting me keep up with Kallen and Tamaki's longer strides. Up ahead, I could see two men with the typical scarves marking gang affiliation wound around their arms, both staggering around and holding their ears. The blast wave must have been channeled straight up the stairs, I realized, I wonder if they've been deafened? If so it made my job just that bit easier.


My first shot caught the further gangster in his right side, just below his floating ribs. Already unbalanced, he turned with the shot, pulled by the momentum of the impact, and teetered on the cusp of falling to the filthy street. Still running, I helped him along with a second shot that looked like it hit his sternum, but by that point my attention had already moved on to his comrade. Fortunately, my competent subordinates had skidded to a halt and opened fire a second after I had, and at least three rounds had hit the man. Within four seconds of the first shot, the three of us were already pelting down the main staircase into Shinjuku-gyoemmae Station, Unit 2 hard on our heels. I could hear gunfire behind me, which I truly hoped was just Unit 3 was just putting a bullet into each of the guards' heads and taking their phones if they had any. Getting trapped in the station by gang reinforcements would be a hell of a complication. As we ran down the stairs, I fumbled with my flashlight but managed to switch it on, remembering the subterranean darkness of the station the night before.


As soon as we reached the foot of the stairs, any doubts I had about Mister Asahara's guaranteed quality were dispelled. It was hard to get an exact count of how many people had been in this room when I'd detonated the secondary explosion, as the flechettes had ripped through the close confines of the antechamber and shredded everybody inside. The reek of blood and feces from the ruptured entrails blended with the scent of explosives, and hung heavily in the air along with a thick cloud of concrete dust. Water pipes and bent girders swayed and hung down from the ceiling at odd angles, and above us the abused ceiling groaned and creaked. Clearly, the detonations of five pipe bombs were the final straw for Shinjuku-gyoemmae Station.


My concerns about the structural integrity of the death trap we were hurtling into aside, we weren't alone in the ticket room. Two gangsters, probably part of the guard detail from the entrance above, had their backs to us as we entered, one on his knees and vomiting, the other looking around wildly at the viscera splashed against the walls.


Kallen and Tamaki with their longer legs had reached the room just before I had, but hadn't delayed waiting for orders. Kallen had immediately thrown herself forwards, knife flashing in her hand, and had already stabbed the kneeling man twice in the back of his neck by the time I jumped down the last two stairs. Tamaki had opted for the less flashy option of simply pistol whipping the standing man, who had turned at the last minute and caught the barrel of the pistol along his temple. Stumbling back and bleeding from a head wound, he tripped over the bottom half of one of the unfortunates who had been in the room when the pipe bomb had gone off, and landed badly on his right arm.


I pumped more energy into my enhancement suite and sprinted through the room, heading out onto the platform, yelling "Leave them! Hurry!" to Kallen and Tamaki as I passed them. Behind me, I heard Unit 2 reach the bottom of the stairs, guaranteeing that our backs were protected. And so, riding the moment, I led Unit 1 out onto the platform of Shinjuku-gyoemmae Station and made a hard left turn, into what had been the center of the Kokuryu-kai weapons market less than two minutes before.


One unlucky day on the Rhine Front, the Francois mages had obtained a rare moment of aerial supremacy in a sector adjacent to my own. By the time the sector commander had called for reinforcements, the Francois had already had the opportunity to blast away at the recovery area a half mile behind the secondary trenches for a full five minutes, raining artillery spells down all over the cowering infantry below. Making the situation even worse, the Francois unit had been commanded by an officer wise enough to quit while he was ahead, and by the time I'd arrived the Frankish mages had already retreated back across the lines.


My unit was detailed to survey the damage and report back to the sector command, and I could still vividly remember the sight. It had been the first time I got an up-close view of what the aftermath of a mage raid on infantry positions unsupported by anti-air weaponry looked like. I particularly remembered the sight of a broad, shallow shell crater that had been used as an open-air mess hall by the units rotated back from the front; the Francois had detonated their artillery rounds about twenty feet over the heads of the surprised and trapped soldiers, and the explosions had essentially liquefied the three hundred or so soldiers who had been eating lunch at the time.


That was the only experience that even compared to what I saw on the platform. The overlapping cones of shrapnel and flechettes had done everything Asahara Hiyashi had promised and more. Shreds of men dripped from the walls, and the few men unlucky enough to not have been killed immediately screamed and screamed, blood gurgling in ruptured chests and torn throats. The things writhing on the ground were all mangled and pulped, less men then horrible worms, studded with shards of bone and glimmering steel needles. How many had been down here, when the bombs went off? A hundred? A hundred and fifty?


For a moment, I couldn't move, the sight of what I had wrought like a window into some hell; if it wasn't for the lack of half-animal, half-human demons, I'd think that I was looking into the mind of Hieronymous Bosch. There a man had wriggled up against a wall, and was holding his own spilled intestines, looking at them with a detached marvel and seemingly ignorant of his missing legs. Over there, half fallen off the platform onto the old subway tracks, was an old man, his skin spotted with liver marks and his back shredded, as if someone had flogged him to death. At the center of the market itself, no bodies had survived intact. All that the steel rain of the flechettes had left behind was a pulped mass of bone, sinew, and meat, steaming and bloody.


And then the stench hit. The blood and bowel smell of the smaller office was matched and exceeded ten times over, and the reek of burning garbage and the preexisting rot of the decrepit subway station blended with the heavy stench of spent explosives and terrified people. It was an overwhelming assault on the sensorium, and only my own long experience with death stopped me from dropping to my knees and vomiting just as the guard Kallen had knifed had done.


Enough! You've got a job to do. I slammed my eyes shut, and shook my head, desperately trying to reclaim my equanimity and detachment. Don't think about it – they were the enemy, and they'd kill you too. That's right. 'No mercy', that's what I'd said, right? Well, maybe I can give them a bit of mercy.


I walked over to the man staring at his own guts, doing my best to ignore how my stomach turned as he fiddled with the loops of intestine hanging from his ruptured abdomen. It's almost like he's playing with them... He couldn't have been much older than Kallen, and I could see his ribs, both through the skin of his exposed chest and protruding out from the deep gut wound that had disemboweled him.


I shot him twice through the chest, and felt only relief as he twitched and gasped.


Turning back to Kallen and Tamaki, I saw that both were standing still, as was Unit 2. Kallen had begun to shake, and Naoto had wrapped her in a hug. Gotta get them moving again. If they start thinking too much, they'll shut down.


"Hey! No slacking!" I winced internally at my own harsh tone, but I couldn't take it back, nor could I find the emotional energy to control myself. "Unit 1, we'll put the wounded down. Unit 2, start looking for anything usable! Hurry up, people – we need to be out of here in five minutes."


As one, the group seemed to jolt back into the present, and slowly the cell members began to move. Their previous speed and precision was replaced with jerky motions, but hopefully that would start to smooth out as they got absorbed in their tasks. I wonder if there's any psychologists in Shinjuku? Considering what I remembered about the Japanese attitude towards mental health, probably not, but it was worth a look. It'd be a shame to lose anybody to untreated shell shock, after all. Myself included. After all, back on the Rhine Front it was... easy to rain shells down. I was just a tool in the Empire's hand. This, on the other hand, was all me. None of this would have been possible without my planning and coordination. Shut up and stop wallowing! They need a leader, not a little girl who can't fucking cope! You're the veteran here – act like it and stop being a damned victim!


When did I start talking to myself like that? I idly wondered as I walked over to the next skinless half-man quivering on the grimy platform, the gang scarf still tightly wound around his left bicep despite the limb below the elbow being nowhere in sight. I don't remember when my internal monologue became a dialogue... almost just a harangue. Is this some kind of lasting effect from the Type-95? That seemed unlikely, considering how I hadn't felt less interested in praising Being X since the day I'd been born yet again.


"H-Hey! Tanya! C'mere!" Tamaki's shout from the far end of the platform startled me out of my stupid fucking idiotic self-reflection, and I hurriedly shot the wounded gangster twice in the chest before holstering my pistol and hurrying down the path, doing my best to avoid stepping on any pieces as I went.


Tamaki stood at the end of the platform, staring at what looked like a gigantic statue of a man in the dim light of his flashlight. As I got closer and added the illumination of my own flashlight to his, I realized that the casus belli Kallen had put in Lord Kewell's mouth in the faked message in my pocket amazingly contained a grain of truth. A Glasgow, a 4th Generation Knightmare Frame, the rapid action units six-year old me had marveled at during the Conquest, stood in Shinjuku-gyoemmae Station. It was clearly Britannian surplus, with fading unit markings and a serial number still painted in white across its slate-gray frame. The cockpit, or pilot block, was open, the seat protruded, just waiting for a pilot to step up and twist the key visibly protruding from the ignition. Looking under the block as I approached, I saw the blinking orange light of a partially charged Sakuradite energy cartridge, indicating the vehicle was gassed up and ready to go.


I wonder which gang was trying to sell the equivalent of a light tank? The east-most floor-level bomb had clearly ended whoever had been standing nearby the Knightmare, but equally clearly hadn't done a thing to damage the mechanical beast itself. I could see several scuff marks where flechettes had ricocheted away, doing nothing but marring the paint. Note to self, don't use anti-personnel weaponry against Knightmares.


"We're totally gonna take it, aren't we?" Tamaki chattered enthusiastically. "Man, this is gonna be so awesome! I've wanted to ride one of these things for years!" I was happy, if a bit disturbed, to see that any sort of stress he might be feeling as a result of the hundred or so dead bodies scattered around us was no match for his enthusiasm. I never would have pegged Tamaki for a mecha otaku – just goes to show how important it is to keep an open mind.


Unfortunately for Tamaki, I was fairly certain this thing was a poisoned chalice. No need to crush his hopes and dreams, though, so I'd walk him through the cons to try and temper his giddy joy. "Well, I'm not sure, Tamaki; got any ideas where we'd store the thing?"


"Umm..." He reluctantly turned away from the Knightmare and towards me, brow furrowed with thought. "In the subway tunnels? Pretty sure there's one near the hideout."


"The same tunnels we'd be using to steal the thing from the gang, and the way they presumably smuggled it into Shinjuku?" The question was rhetorical, and we both knew it. "Wouldn't that be the first place you'd look if you knew somebody had stolen the war machine you were trying to sell?"


Tamaki had no response to that one, but I could tell he still hadn't quite let go of the idea entirely yet, so I continued. "How would we keep it operational? We'd need a supply of spare parts, energy cartridges, and ammunition. We'd also need to find someone who knows how to maintain and repair Knightmares. The Britannians are incompetent, but surely they'd pay attention to anyone asking about Knightmare parts." Tamaki began to droop, and I reached as high on his back as I could reach to administer a friendly pat in consolation.


"Oh, a Knightmare! What the hell's that doing here?" I turned, hand still raised, and nearly ran into Kallen, who had apparently followed Tamaki's shouting too. Her goggles were up on her forehead, and her eyes were wide and fascinated, glued to the contours of the Knightmare's frame. The beam of her flashlight followed her gaze, tracing over the elongated "head" of the machine before following the bulging "chest" of the pilot block down past the blinking diode of the energy cartridge. Internally, I groaned. Great, another mecha otaku. Damn my luck, two in the same terrorist cell!


"Yes, a Knightmare. Seems like one of the gangs actually was stealing Britannian surplus." I realized my arm was still up, and lamely let it fall to my side. "I was just asking Tamaki if there was a place he knew about where we could store it. Got any ideas, Kallen?"


The half-Britannian hmm'ed for a moment, turning the idea over in her head, before letting out an exasperated growl and shaking her head. "Dad's got a boat shed down in the holiday colony on Enoshima, but there's no way we can get this thing all the way there without someone seeing it."


"That's more or less what I'd figured myself." I looked over at Tamaki, who was still staring at the Glasgow with a heartbroken expression, and felt a stirring of sympathy. He didn't need to be here for the next part. Plus, we're running out of time. "Tamaki," I began, speaking kindly and gently as if to a child, "why don't you go help Units 2 and 3 grab everything of value that we can, okay? Kallen and I will handle this."


"But... The chicks would really dig me if I was a Knightmare Pilot..." Tamaki whined, although he obligingly turned and started heading back up the platform, cursing as he nearly slipped on a pool of mingled blood and shit as he left. I rolled my eyes and smiled. It's good for morale to have jokers in the unit, I supposed. I should talk to him about time and place, though – he's good at slapstick, but this isn't really the place for it.


As he left, I turned back to Kallen and let the levity drop from my face and voice. Back to work, huh? Guess the team leader can't slack off on projects. "We're gonna need to disable this thing beyond all repair before we leave. If the gangs start rocketing around in Knightmares, no telling what the Britannians will do to re-establish their monopoly on the technology."


Kallen took the sudden change in topic in stride, and just nodded along. "I'm not sure how we're going to do that," she admitted, as she pulled a grenade out of her pack, "but I bet a few of these in the cockpit will handle it."


A girl after Koenig's heart. "Absolutely. One wedged right above the energy cartridge too." But how to secure and remotely detonate them? "Stay here, I'll be right back."


Fortunately, it turned out that Ohgi still had the leftover bundle of twine from last night tucked away in his backpack. As he dug it out, he let me know that all the Britannian currency, drugs, and ammunition that had survived the blast intact was more or less all packed up, and Inoue had taken it upon herself to task the idle members of Units 2 and 3, and Tamaki, with policing up all the cellphones from the various gangsters on the off chance that any were usable and unlocked. I thanked him for the update and told him to pass the word to Naoto to start the withdrawal up the east stairway.


"...I'll see you back at the hideout." I finished as I pinned the fraudulent notice from the Purists claiming responsibility for the attack to the broken half of a table using a knife requisitioned from a nearby torso. "Remember to ditch the costume before you get too far. No need to create a string of witnesses across Shinjuku."


"Yeah, yeah, we know. We're not old enough to get dementia, Tanya." Figures that Ohgi the Sadist would have no problem cracking jokes at a time like this.


As the rest of the cell streamed past us and up the rubble-choked staircase, Kallen and I carefully wedged the four grenades we had between ourselves into the central joints of the Glasgow and into the cockpit. Before we put the grenades in place, we tied a length of twine to the pins, and tied those lengths of twine to a second, much longer piece. Ideally, we could get to the stairs, pull the string from there, and run as far up behind them as possible before the explosion, avoiding the embarrassing possibility of taking the only injuries sustained on this mission from our own shrapnel. I doubted that fragmentation grenades would be adequate to permanently incapacitate a Knightmare, but I hoped that the Sakuradite core powering the vehicle's Yggdrasil Drive and the Sakuradite in the energy cartridge would be detonated by the grenades' detonations.


And so, two minutes past my five minute deadline, I pulled the sting and sprinted up the stairway, heavy backpack thumping at my ground as I leapt over the chunks of cement and the crooked shafts of rebar that seemed to reach out to trip me, Kallen hot on my heels. Behind me, I heard the sound of something falling and cursed. One of the grenades got pulled out of the Knightmare! Too late now. I wasn't heading back to see if the other three pins had come free or not.


As it turned out, at least one had clearly detonated, and equally clearly it was the one wedged between the pilot block and the energy cartridge. The initial crackling explosion of the grenade was soon followed by a deeper bellow, prompting me to dump all my reserved energy into my enhancement suite, relying on my supercharged reflexes to dive through gaps in the rubble and to leap over the many impediments. Kallen somehow kept up, and I drove the bitter envy from my mind as the athletic noble easily kept up with me. Damn the Kozukis and their superior breeding! Truly, there was something to be said for hybrid vigor. Pity I didn't seem to have any of it.


By the time we hurtled out into the cold outside air, it was clear that the explosion of the Knightmare's Sakuradite, coupled with the pipe bombs, had been the final straw. As we ran down the street, away from the visibly teetering skeleton of an office building that stood atop the old Shinjuku-gyoemmae Station, I could only be thankful that no civilians seemed to be out and about. Presumably the two bloody corpses lying out on the street, coupled with the sounds of gunshots and explosions, had been enough of a hint that the area was dangerous. Admittedly, I hadn't expected the dangers of the area to include the final collapse of one of Shinjuku's many cadaverous buildings, but it was hardly the first building I'd brought crumbling to the ground.


I'm sure, given time, the other inhabitants of Shinjuku would grow equally accustomed to the sight.

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 11: A Victory Stew


(A big thank you to Siatru, and to Daemon and Shade on the Tanya Writers Discord for beta reading this chapter. Hopefully the writer's block won't persist into the new year, and I'll deliver more AYGGW with Germanian efficiency!)


Two blocks away from the ruins of Shinjuku-gyoemmae Station, I ducked into an alleyway, Kallen hot on my heels. Resisting the urge to surrender to my aching limbs and collapse against the wall, I quickly started stripping away my disguise - the last thing I wanted was for any survivors to hear reports of people in bloodstained medical scrubs heading to a certain basement. The gloves came off in two efficient tugs, and were balled up with the goggles and the mask inside the knit cap a moment later. Bending down, I tucked the bundle of fabric into a pile of bricks fallen from a nearby building and swiftly pulled my scrub top off over my head, cramming it into the rubble pile after the hat.


Turning to check on my comrade, I saw Kallen doing much the same thing as I had, quickly stripping her disguise off. In the alley, dingy even in the faint light of the joyless November sun, her incredibly vivid hair was an eye-catching explosion of red as she shook it free from her cap. As Kallen pulled the scrub top off, leaning back to try and wiggle a shoulder free of the medical garment, I saw a flash of skin as the vest she wore underneath tried to follow the disposable layer and exposed her belly.


For some reason, I didn't immediately turn away. The adrenaline spike of going into danger had already begun to fade, and after days of planning and the intensity of the last fifteen minutes, my mind felt dull and heavy. My eyes locked on Kallen' smooth skin, and while I dimly knew I should look away I remained transfixed. I knew that it would be awkward if she turned around and saw me blankly staring at her, but that concern felt unimportant compared to the exhaustion that seemed to swallow me up.


I suddenly realized I was swaying on my feet, and about to fall over. The tilting sensation grounded me back in the present, and I realized I'd spent at least a few seconds blankly staring at Kallen's back. Immediately, I spun around and vigorously shook my head. This is no time to be zoning out! You're in enemy territory! The mission's not over yet!


Remembering the possibility that irate gangsters might already be out hunting for whoever attacked the market, I kept my eyes fixed on the entrance to the alley, checking to make sure nobody had seen us dart inside and followed us. Unfortunately, the street outside appeared entirely deserted, presumably as the wise had fled the sound of nearby explosions and the foolish had gone to the station to take a look, so I had nothing to focus on to distract myself from the grunting noises Kallen made as she fought to free herself from her shirt. If I wasn't so hungry and tired, I'm sure a few joking remarks would have lept to mind about how Kallen could effortlessly gun down a man but couldn't change her clothes without the help of a maid, but all I could think of at the moment was how badly I wanted a cup of the rare, watery coffee I sometimes allowed myself. Besides, I doubted that Kallen would appreciate attempts at levity while we were out on a mission, especially not about the man she'd shot minutes before. Her second kill, now that I think about it. The first with a gun... Wonder how it felt, compared to the knife?


Kallen soon managed to shuck off the scrubs, and after taking a moment to straighten her clothes out, joined me in the mouth of the alley. Free of our disguises, we took the "scenic" route back to the hideout, going far out of our way and taking a circuitous route through the tangled streets and alleys of Shinjuku. I did my best to move the same way I had during my long years of searching out day labor for my daily bowl of watery soup: head down, shoulders slumped, steps small and shuffling. Ohgi's hoodie, once again stained with blood and cement dust, was bulky enough to hide in and the hood deep enough to completely hide my unfortunately distinctive hair. Kallen, by contrast, made no effort to conceal her Britannian heritage, instead focusing on concealing her reason for being in Shinjuku Ghetto on the day of a major terrorist attack. Putting her cellphone to her ear, she immediately began to babble excitedly into the phone as we headed west, away from both the ruins of Shinjuku-gyoemmae Station and from the hideout. Even as she chatted with an imaginary conversation partner, Kallen still managed an impressive degree of mobility, somehow sliding in, out, and around the increasingly dense pedestrians, forcing me to speed up to keep pace with her longer strides.


When she'd first begun walking down the road as we'd left the alley, phone glued to her ear and a stream of almost stereotypical teenage babble filling the air, I'd nearly pulled Kallen right back into the shadows to give her a quick lesson on how to not draw every eye in the ghetto, but now I was thankful I had mastered that impulse; nobody would link the young woman prancing through the ghetto in short-shorts and leg warmers to a terrorist attack. While people certainly saw her, nobody particularly cared about a Britannian teenager on a thrill trip to the Eleven ghetto, especially not when the rising plume of dust in the distance and the already spreading rumors let everybody know something big was happening nearby. A few people frowned at her apparent insensitivity when Kallen commented on the smell of the ghetto or how lucky she'd been to be in Shinjuku when something interesting happened, but aside from muttering about 'damned Brits', nobody seemed particularly interested in what she was doing or where she was going. I was right to trust her as an intelligence agent, if her tradecraft has developed so rapidly!


It was an impressive performance, so much so that I started to doubt my decision to go as low-profile as possible. While everybody saw Kallen, nobody was suspicious of her – irritated, yes, scornful, maybe, but suspicious, no; on the other hand, with my features hidden by the oversized hoodie and the way I instinctively shied away from touching anybody else while still keeping as close to Kallen as possible, I suddenly realized that I probably looked exactly like a fugitive desperate to escape the scene of a crime undetected.


I thought of myself as being fairly decent at reconnaissance, my eye for terrain details sharpened by my time as first an artillery spotter and then as the head of an independent command of aerial mages, but I couldn't pretend to be similarly experienced with human intelligence. I had been, after all, a combat asset, not a spook.


There were only so many problems you could solve via signaling, after all, and a savage beating wasn't the end-all, be-all when it came to interrogation.


As a result of my magical abilities and talents as a soldier, I'd never been trained for this sort of subterfuge in my past life. The extent of infiltration planning had been a brief seminar on planning and executing ambushes, the lessons of which had already paid off in this third life, when I'd gotten the drop on those unlucky gangsters in the truck. Fortunately, I now had comrades who understood human intelligence, and who were clearly cold-blooded enough to push every advantage at their disposal to advance the mission. I looked admiringly at Kallen as she made her way down yet another Shinjuku street, seeming to dodge around elderly pedestrians, street vendors, and the heaps of stinking garbage without noticing anything around her, absorbed in her noisy, faked conversation. What audacity, to hide in plain sight and make not the slightest effort to conceal your presence! She'd clearly grown from her previous encounter with violence – last time she'd barely walked a block before bursting into unconcealed anger and pain, and now it was as if nothing she'd seen in the subway station had touched her. Or maybe her mask has just gotten better...


Eventually, the crowds thinned out, and we finally made it back to our basement hideout. The sun had begun to set as we came down the stairs, which were thankfully free of any signs of a struggle, much less a force of irate gangsters waiting for us in our little hole in the ground sanctuary with murder on their minds. Apparently, the Kozuki Organization had gotten away undetected, at least for today. Safe for today, sure... How long do you think that's going to last? With a vigorous shake of the head, I muted that particular internal voice. I couldn't even truly say we were safe for the day yet, not until I'd checked in and made sure that all the other scattered guerrillas had all made it back safely. I'm sure they did, I told myself as I followed Kallen down the last flight of stairs, the sound of the 'secret' generator throbbing through the uninsulated wall of the sub-basement, they probably didn't even wait for us to start celebrating their victory.


As it turned out, we had been the last to return, but contrary to my expectations we did not walk in on a party in full swing. Instead, as Kallen opened the door to the hideout and stepped inside, I caught a brief glance of a room full of anxious, silent people sitting on the couches or pacing around the firing range before everybody noticed us and chaos descended.


"Kallen!" Naoto practically hurled himself to his feet and almost tackled his sister in a hug, rushing from the couch to the doorway in a red and brown blur. Kallen mumbled a greeting into his jacketed shoulder as she wrapped her arms around him, returning the hug even as she took a step back to compensate for his momentum, nearly stepping on my foot. I could hear what sounded like her cursing at him through the leather of his coat, probably some sort of endearing sibling spat about how she wasn't a kid and he was embarrassing her, but I noticed that she made no effort to let go of her big brother, and indeed clung on to him just as hard as he did her.


Dodging Kallen's foot, I tried to take a step around the siblings into the room, intending to give them some space. I was sure that Naoto was probably still at least somewhat upset with me for getting Kallen involved in the first place, and I'm sure stewing in his own juices for a few hours as we'd taken a pedestrian tour of Shinjuku probably hadn't done anything to soothe his aristocratic temper. Furthermore, now that the adrenaline of the situation had gone down, I was sure he'd be upset that I'd taken his baby sister to a mass casualty incident. I suddenly remembered seeing Kallen stumbling to a halt and shaking in her boots, eyes wide and pupils dilated in the dark subway station, and winced. Even if Naoto wasn't upset with me about instigating that particular traumatic episode, my lack of sympathy in the immediate aftermath would guarantee his anger. I'd hoped that, between his logical intelligence and leadership experience, he'd realize that I was just trying to keep things moving and would understand why I'd been so callous, but considering how fervently he was hugging Kallen it was clear that Big Brother Naoto was in charge at the moment, not Revolutionary Leader Naoto.


Which made it all the more surprising when, as I stepped around the siblings, Naoto abruptly released Kallen and grabbed me, pulling me close. For an instant, I tried to resist the pull, impulses to flee from the sudden onslaught or launch an attack warring within my exhausted mind, but between the surprise and the fatigue I was too tired and surprised to fight back. The moment passed, and I realized that I wasn't under attack – instead, for the second time, Naoto was hugging me. I grimaced, discomforted by both the public display of... emotion? Affection? Either way, it made me embarrassed to be casually manhandled in front of everybody, and the unaccountable warmth inside me at the feeling of being held tight to another person who wasn't trying to hurt me did nothing to soothe my mounting embarrassment at this latest humiliation. Kallen smiled happily down at us until she met my eyes, saw my displeased expression... and her smile curved wickedly before she burst out laughing, the treacherous wench.


Before I could extract myself from the hug to take revenge on my traitor of a subordinate and didn't that word seem just a bit forced, Naoto loosened his grip, backing off a step and making eye contact. His blue eyes, a slightly darker shade than his sister's, were as intense as they were watery, and I felt the same treacherous acceleration of my heart I'd experienced a few hours earlier at the sight of his sister's smooth skin. His ancestors surely must have engaged in some form of eugenics program – it's the only reasonable explanation. Genetic inheritance surely wouldn't be so cruel as to randomly give a single already wealthy and powerful family beauty, strength, and intelligence on top of social standing and financial power, would it? Nature might not, but like all things Britannian and noble, the Kozuki siblings were clearly the products of unfair competition. Definitely not interesting for anything beyond their connections and abilities, not at all. Just part of my path to a cushy job administering their father's demesne. That's all, damn those blue eyes... This was ridiculous. He was showing just a slight amount of affection to me, and I was obsessing over his eyes. Is this some sort of insidious Britannian love-bombing? Am I being influenced? ...No, that's ridiculous.


"Thank you, Tanya, for everything you've done." I felt myself sway slightly, suddenly pulled out of my thoughts by Naoto's thankful babble, hating how my paranoid, interaction-starved mind and weak knees betrayed me. That, or the cost of tapping my energy reserves during the rush out of the station was finally making itself known, and I was about to pass out from exhaustion and hunger. Perhaps that explains why I can't stay focused – I'm dead on my feet. I really needed to ask Kallen to get me more fat- and protein-heavy food if I intended to keep using my limited magic, especially if it left me this mentally fatigued whenever I pushed a bit too far, and Naoto was still talking. I probably didn't miss much... I wonder if he's got any snacks...


"Your plan was everything I could have ever hoped for and more. And thank you, thank you, for keeping Kallen safe. You were true to your word. The Goddess Amaterasu herself couldn't have done a better job smiting those monsters." Naoto chuckled at his joke, before clapping me on the shoulder, rising back to his full height, and leading his sister over to a table creaking under the weight of a heavy pot full of what looked like a thick stew, perched precariously on an ancient cooking stove. As soon as I saw the pot, which Souichiro was carefully stirring, a sudden awareness of the heady smell of cooked food burst upon me, and I felt my mouth flood with saliva as my nose suddenly registered the scents of grease, salt, and broth. I was sure the visibly greasy stew swirling in the pot would have turned my stomach in my past life, when I'd grown passionately sick of endless wurst, but I was so hungry that I'd even be willing to pull of Vi... Visha's old stunt and eat a plate of K-brot.


Before I could take two steps to follow the Kozuki's and snag a bowl for myself, another hand landed on my shoulder. Wearily, irrationally fearing that taking my eyes off the soup would guarantee I'd never get fed, I looked up at Ohgi. He seemed about to say something weighty, judging by his expression, something that he had to get off his chest, but something he saw made him take pity on me; instead of the lecture I was certain the sadistic former teacher would deploy to devastating effect, he simply smiled and patted me on the shoulder. "Go on and get something to eat – we can talk later."


Almost before his hand had lifted away, I capitalized on my advantage and surged away from the second in command, blazing a line straight towards the soup. Nagata, sitting beside Naoto on the couch, pressed a bowl into my hands as I passed, and Souchiro filled it with a generous ladle. Cradling my bowl like the precious thing it was and slowing only to grab a spoon from heap of loose cutlery at the end of the table, I sat down on the other couch between a Tamaki and Chihiro, who were both chasing after intoxication as quickly as they could drink. Tamaki had a bottle of some sort of homemade rotgut in his hand, while Chihiro had a water glass a third full of some evil-smelling clear spirit. As soon as I sat down, Chihiro lifted the glass over my head and with a loud "Kampai!" Tamaki filled it from his bottle. I didn't care – I was in a slice of culinary heaven. The broth was almost painfully salty, the few scraps of meat were either gristly or greasy, and the vegetables had been over-boiled almost to the point of dissolution and well past the point of tastelessness, but the fine spice of hunger made it a meal fit for the Kaiser in his palace, free from any rationing or shortage.


As I inhaled my soup, I took the opportunity to look around at the rest of the Kozuki Cell, covertly observing my comrades over the rim of the rapidly emptying bowl. On first glance, all appeared to be well. Souchiro and Ohgi stood by the door, bowls in hand and talking about something I couldn't quite make out, presumably the good old days as old men are wont to do. Inoue sat over at the firing range's loading table, going through one of the packs deposited in a heap by her feet, clearly taking the initiative and starting an inventory of what loot we'd managed to get away with, a bowl of cooling stew near her hand. Nagata and Naoto were swapping jokes back and forth, laughing at each other, Kallen laughing along from her seat between them, across the table from me. Chihiro and Tamaki continued to drink, Tamaki loudly bragging about something mostly indecipherable and Chihiro nodding along, every so often extending her glass towards him in a silent request for a refill of the pungent homemade liquor.


While I was happy to see my comrades enjoying a well earned moment of relaxation, the longer I looked at them the more superficial all the celebration seemed. Tamaki might be a drunk, but I'd never seen him pound away at a bottle of hard liquor with the same aggressive pace he was setting beside me. Chihiro, in my experience, was typically a hairsbreadth from an explosion of rage at the best of time, periodically flying off the handle at seemingly minor setbacks during training – her uncommunicative, subdued state seemed wildly out of character, as did the amount of liquor she was downing. Inoue was always a hard worker, but she usually socialized with the rest of the cell when we all happened to be at the hideout at the same time – burying herself in work was something she typically did while alone, or when it was only the two of us working on keeping the Benevolent Association's books straight. Nagata and the Kozukis might be laughing and joking, but the laughter from all three sounded hollow, and Kallen in particular looked worryingly bleak, chuckling half-heartedly while staring into the bowl of congealing stew sitting on the table in front of her. While I couldn't hear what Ohgi and Souchiro were saying over Tamaki, I could see how Ohgi's eyes darted from person to person, keeping tabs on his class and making sure nobody had wandered off.


In short, the party was a sham and nobody was happy to be here. Completely understandable, considering what we'd all seen just hours before. My stomach twisted, and I cursed under my breath. I known I would pay for wolfing down that disgusting meal so quickly, but I hadn't expected indigestion so soon.


Setting the horrible feeling and my empty bowl aside, I tried to think of what I should do to address this new problem. My experience managing human resources in both my previous lives told me that letting my organization stew would likely decrease both individual and organizational efficiency, and could severely impact intra-organizational relationships, particularly with myself as the instigator of the whole event. Even beyond the concern that I might become the whipping girl for any misplaced anger or stress, letting fresh employees or soldiers go without support after major milestones was an excellent way to impact their ability to develop and grow from their experience – if I didn't intervene somehow, and just let the cell self-medicate their problems away, didn't that make me a negligent manager?


At the same time, I had no qualms admitting that I was not, in fact, a qualified therapist, and I doubted that my experience performing performance reviews and career advancement meetings would carry over to dealing with this kind of issue. It certainly hadn't the last time around, now that I looked back on my second life. I'd periodically invested my efforts in improving the abilities of my subordinates, both before and after the formation of the 203rd, but that had mostly been performative in nature and technical in scope. I might have improved the skills of the soldiers I'd worked with, but I had never thought it necessary to give any psychological support to my subordinates. I had maintained the distance of command, concerned that any laxness or casual interactions would undermine my authority, always a concern when one is three heads shorter and a hundred pounds lighter then everybody around them.


The only time I had ever so much as tried to help my subordinates with their qualms regarding the War and what we were doing had been coercing Grantz into engaging with the Francois partisans during the Arrene operation. That whole operation, including my advice to Lieutenant Grantz, now felt bitterly ironic, now that I myself was a partisan conducting terrorist acts. I remembered the callous way I had stood by and recorded the summary executions of captured Germanians by the partisans, and the equally callous way I'd rained fire down on suspected partisan positions, uncaring of potential civilian deaths. I hadn't been wrong, when I'd told Grantz that "those who survive always come back for vengeance," and the Britannians would certainly learn the truth of those words from long ago and far away too. At the same time... I could have handled that whole situation better, both the tactical problem of Arrene and the managerial problem of Lieutenant Grantz. Grantz clearly needed a reach out, a reassurance, something constructive to build his loyalty and faith in the righteousness of our cause – and I'd bungled the situation and resorted to threats instead. It was fortunate that the whole experience hadn't burnt Grantz out entirely, and that he'd continued to serve as part of the 203rd.


That had been far from my first managerial error when it came to my first independent command. With the benefit of hindsight and free from the mind-altering influence of the Type-95, I could admit to myself that I had gone overboard in both my initial training of the 203rd. The only saving grace had been that my training hadn't actually killed anybody, and that my pool of recruits had been selected from the crème of the Imperial Army's mage corps, and thus already had some training and superhuman toughness. Even with those advantages, if I didn't have the military hierarchy and the desperation of the war to hide behind, I likely would have been court martialed for my abusive conduct.


And now, stripped of those advantages, I found myself once more outside of my core competencies for the second time in a day. Earlier today, Kallen had proven her grasp of human intelligence and infiltration had, in some ways, far exceeded my own. In a moment I had neither prompted nor planned for, she had immediately understood the best way to guarantee her safe passage back to the hideout unconnected to the attack we had perpetrated minutes before. I had not understood what Kallen had been aiming for until I examined her actions and the responses they prompted minutes later – in fact, I had nearly stopped her and forced her to do things my way, which ultimately might have led the vengeful survivors of the Kokuryu-kai straight to our front door. Although...


Perhaps that was the lesson I should have learned; I might be somewhat skilled, especially when it came to combat, but I wasn't the only member of the organization who brought specialized experience to the table. I was a member of a team now, not a lone child fending for herself on the streets, and I should act accordingly. Trying to take all responsibility on myself was a sure way to crash and burn, or at the very least make everybody resent me more than they already do, the murderous little half-Brit whorechild. Yes, delegation was important. Someone needed to talk to the members of the cell, to get their grievances aired so they could be addressed, before the trauma and resulting dissatisfaction tore us apart or undermined my comrades' mental health. And that someone wasn't going to be me, because I'd probably definitely screw it up just as much as I had when I'd tried to talk to Lieutenant Grantz.


I found myself looking at Ohgi, still deep in conversation with Souichiro. As the second in command of the Kozuki Cell, not to mention as a former teacher, he definitely had the skills necessary to coax honest answers from our fellow terrorists about what they were feeling in the wake of our first major operation. His role as an officer was a double-edged sword, since while he had the power to take immediate action on any lessons learned or suggestions for improvement, that same authority might bias answers towards the party line and assurances that everybody was feeling fine, especially considering what I remembered from my first life. Complaining to superior was frowned upon in most cases, but especially if your complaints touched on about personal problems or concerns about mental stability. Considering the impact the Conquest had on the traditional forms of Japanese life, that might not be as big of a concern now, but there was still the hint of sadism I'd noticed in Ohgi before to worry about. If I asked him to start probing into our comrades, would he take advantage of them and use whatever he discovered to needle them, gratifying his sick impulses? Would he take advantage of me, blackmailing me with the weakness I'd revealed, the implied mistrust of my fellow cell-members? If Ohgi or Naoto ever decided that I was threatening their status as the unquestioned leaders of the cell, revealing that I'd wanted my comrades interrogated would lead everybody to turn on me, and I'd be found in an alley somewhere in Shinjuku with my tongue cut out and my eyes gouged.


I took another bite of soup, and closed my eyes. I was letting my fear get to me. Ohgi wasn't going to betray me, and he wasn't going to abuse our fellows. No matter what his personal predilections were, the man was a professional, loyal to both Naoto and the cause. It was wrong to judge him for enjoying the infliction of pain – such a trait could be useful in a soldier, doubly so in an irregular fighter. He had never been anything less than personally kind to me, and I doubted that Kallen, Tamaki, Nagata, or Inoue would simply sit by and let Naoto and Ohgi administer the traditional punishment for snitches, if push came to shove. I prided myself on my logic, on thinking things through clearly, and on utilizing resources to their fullest potential. I hadn't let fear immobilize me when Naoto had used Tamaki to test my abilities and loyalty to the cause, and I wouldn't let fear stop me from doing what I had to do to make sure everybody in this room stayed as healthy as could be, mentally and physically. We had a long road ahead of us, and I'd need everybody's help to finally get my rear into an executive-level cushioned office seat.


Well, no time like the present. Plus, I was out of soup, and Tamaki and Chihiro were only getting louder with each swig. With a grunt of effort, I forced myself to my feet and dropped my empty bowl onto the table next to the still half-full pot. The thick, rich scent of simmering broth was intoxicating, and I nearly halted in my tracks to serve myself seconds, but forced myself to keep moving. There would hopefully be time for more soup later, and if not, I'd had enough to tamp down the hunger pangs to a manageable level – I hoped that bowl would be enough to restore my mind to its typical efficiency at the very least.


Ohgi apparently saw me coming, as he clapped Souichiro on the shoulder and came over to meet me by the table. "Feeling a bit better now, Tanya? You can have more if you'd like." The man's smile was kind, and I nearly succumbed to temptation once again, but I persevered. The attack on the market had been my first mission as a strategist and junior officer of the organization – I couldn't rest until my mission was complete, including dealing with the aftermath and accounting for our gains and losses. Which reminded me that after I talked with Ohgi about meeting with the other members of the cell individually, I needed to meet up with Inoue to see if we'd managed to at least break even on our mission; apparently, my schedule wouldn't allow me back for seconds. Maybe I'll see if I can raid Ohgi's snack stash again later... If he didn't move it after Kallen broke in the last time...


"Thank you, but I'm alright for now." For some reason, Ohgi didn't look pleased at my professional response, his smile seeming to shrink by a few teeth. Perhaps the cool response was puncturing the party atmosphere? It would be unfortunate to be seen as aloof, but more so to be seen as unreliable, so I soldiered on. "Can I speak to you privately, for a moment? I have something I need your help with."


Ohgi's eyes widened slightly, but his only outward response was an easy nod. "That's fine with me, Tanya. I actually wanted to talk with you about something myself." He jerked his head towards the door of the hideout, and continued, "Want to go up and get some fresh air? It's getting a bit too loud in here for me."


I nodded, even as I tried to puzzle out what it was he wanted to talk about. Now that I thought about it, Ohgi had tried to take me aside before I'd eaten, practically as soon as I'd returned from the mission trailing behind Kallen. Presumably, whatever it was the second in command had to share was time sensitive, and I cursed my short-sightedness that I had opted to satisfy my hunger before listening to whatever it was he wanted to say. He had told me it could wait until after I'd eaten though, presumably because he'd realized that I wouldn't be able to think straight with the tantalizing scent of dinner in my nose. Sadist or not, I've worked under far worse bosses before. I really should be more thankful to Naoto and Ohgi for the amount of trust and support they had extended to me, as well as the opportunity to prove myself worthy to the game Lord Stadtfeld was playing with us all.


Outside in the ruins of the old tenement, the day's small heat was already a thing of the past, and the wind coming off Tokyo Bay kilometers away cut effortlessly through my hoodie. Shivering, I took shelter behind a wall that blocked the worst of the windchill and hoped this conversation wouldn't take too long. Already, the warmth and food of the sub-basement seemed like a dream in the brutally cold November night. Thankfully, Ohgi opted to stand between me and the shattered window letting the wet breeze inside, further blocking the wind, and didn't waste any time.


"You did a really good job, Tanya, getting everything planned out and working. It was... Impressive, seeing you plan out the attack in such detail, and then getting all the parts together. Solid work. I don't think Naoto or I could do something like that." Well, at least I don't feel cold anymore. It was nice having management that could appreciate my work, and was willing to offer positive feedback as appropriate. "That said..." Oh shit, oh shit! What did I do wrong?


True to his sadistic nature, Ohgi left me on the hook for what felt like a small eternity, the seconds-long gap slowly stretching out to a minute before he continued. "That said... I'm not comfortable with killing injured people. I know, I know, there were lots of good reasons that you'd be happy to share."


I hadn't realized my mouth was already open, ready to spout justifications and explanations until Ohgi gestured for me to stay quiet. Reluctantly, I closed my mouth, feeling fit to burst like an over-pressurized pipe. Did he think that I liked it? I didn't! I hated it! But what was I supposed to do – let them live and tell everybody what we look like? Even in costume, if they picked out enough details, everybody would be in danger! And the ones down in the station weren't going to live – should I have just let them suffer, Ohgi?! The last thought clotted the panicked babble into a sensation of solid mass in the back of my throat. He said he just didn't feel comfortable killing the injured, which made sense given his personality – a corpse, after all, cannot scream.


"I'm not asking you to justify anything – I don't have the right to do so." Ohgi had continued to talk after a brief pause, and I forced my attention back to what he was saying, doing my best to ignore the wet gurgles that the disemboweled man down in the station had made until I had silenced him. Ultimately, even though he still lived, he hadn't screamed either. "Naoto and I agreed to your plan, and helped you out – we even helped you plant the bombs ourselves. It's just that... well, it made me feel like a Britannian, I guess. They couldn't fight back, and we killed them. I guess that's just part of being a terrorist, though." Silently, I agreed with him. This wasn't going to be a clean war, and lots of people, including civilians, were going to die. The way he phrased that concern still felt like a gut punch though, even if I'm sure he hadn't intended it to be.


I remembered watching a Britannian officer pick his way through the pile of corpses strewn at the foot of a wall, carefully prodding each body and shooting any that groaned in the head with his pistol. He had been just as externally calm and collected as I had been, moving down the blood-slick platform. I suddenly felt nauseated and shamed by the praise Ohgi had given me just seconds before. I didn't regret what I had made possible, but the idea that I had acted like a Britannian, that the plans inspired by my past lives made being a Britannian in mind a possibility, a state of mind that came naturally to me and to my planning process... It was shameful. Once again, I remembered being on the side with dominance of arms and technology, and felt ashamed of my actions. Killing the Dacian army and taking only the commander alive had been effortless, knocking their country out of the war had been as easily achieved as the Britannian Conquest of my youth – even easier, since we didn't even suffer a minor defeat like the Britannians had at Itsukushima. At Arrene, while I hadn't had the authority to attack the city I had been the one to draw up the plan unbinding the Army's hands, and I had used my tactical authority to insure that plan was carried out as close to perfection as could be.


Perhaps Being X had been crueler than I'd thought, when he'd reincarnated me for the second time. I thought the hair, eyes, and face, the same as my second life, had just been his attempt at a joke; when I'd learned about the circumstances of my new life, I had thought it was a simple way to increase the difficulty of my new life, a cursed gift by a wannabe deity. Now, I wondered if his decision to encumber me with Britannian heritage had been a damning indictment of my moral character in his eyes. True, god or not Being X was in no way my moral superior, but I couldn't help but think his decision to make my sire in this life a member of the greatest race of callous murderers around was a hint about how the alleged deity saw me. If so, I couldn't honestly say that he was entirely wrong – my works proved him at least partially right.


"I'm sorry, I probably shouldn't have put that on you." I could still hear Ohgi talking, but he felt some distance away, as I pondered the mysterious ways in which Being X worked. "I'm sure you're beating yourself up now, but you really shouldn't. I was trying to say that I'm sure other members of our group are going to feel the same way, so I will talk to them to make sure they understand that Naoto and I fully backed your plan, and they should come to us if they have concerns... Tanya? Tanya?"


I snapped back into the present as Ohgi gently shook me, forcing my mind away from contemplating that evil unknowable bastard and trying to rewind what Ohgi had been saying as I spaced out. He was crouched low now, eyes level with my own, and he looked quite concerned. I tried to force a smile, to try and show that I was aware and listening, so he didn't need to look at me like I'm some weak girl who can't hack it. I'm not! I'm strong! I'm strong! I'm not weak, I'm not broken, so pleasepleaseplease don't look at me with pity! I was injured.


"Thank you, Ohgi." I forced the words out, and to my relief they came out smoothly, my voice cool and unwavering, untouched by my internal whining. "I actually wanted to ask you to talk to the other members of the cell. I realize that most of them haven't seen anything like... that, before, and I don't think I'd be able to... I don't think most of our comrades would be willing to truthfully tell me what they think." Now that I was acting again, moving forward on an issue I had identified, I felt a bit more in control. I just need to keep moving forwards, I realized, every time I look back I let myself get distracted, so I just need to stay active, not reactive. "If possible, I would like for you to meet with each of them individually, to give them an opportunity to freely express their views and concerns – the sooner the better. If we let them bottle it up for too long, their mental stability might be... undermined, reducing their efficacy."


"The same goes for you, Tanya." His immediate response was like a slap across my face, and if Ohgi hadn't had his hand on my shoulder I might have actually rocked back. Does... does he see me as mentally unstable? No! Nonono! I don't have anywhere to go! I can't leave the group! I don't want to be alone again! Please, no! I'm good! I'm good! I realized I'd started to hyperventilate, and fought to get my breath under control again. Passing out would do nothing to improve Ohgi's apparently low opinion of me, and it would guarantee I'd never have a hand in planning anything again, endangering my planned path to a safe management position far from the front lines.


Ohgi sighed, and patted me on the head with his other hand. I focused on the sensation of the hand on my shoulder and the hand on my head, drawing stability from the feeling of the pressure and hating myself for the weakness I was clearly showing to my superior. You're acting like an upset child, having a tantrum and needing her daddy to pamper her to calm her down. I cringed at the mental image and tried to force it away. Ohgi wasn't my father, he was my boss. I didn't have a father. I didn't have a mother. I just had a job, a cause, and coworkers. That's all. Feeling good from human touch may be instinctual, but it was also a weakness. This was a dangerous life, and it was impossible to know who Being X or the Britannians might tear from me next. I couldn't let myself get attached to Ohgi, to Naoto, or even to Kallen – I hadn't been hurt when my mother had died because I hadn't let myself get attached to her. One of the few times you've shown wisdom so far.


After a minute or three, once my breathing calmed, I stepped back, and Ohgi let me go, moving his hands away and standing up again. Even though I had resented being comforted, I still felt shockingly cold once I was alone out of his reach again. "You might have a point, but I request you speak with the others first. I've... seen something like this before – as best I know, none of them have. It will be harder on them, since it's their first time, so..."


Ohgi frowned slightly, but nodded, and started moving back towards the hidden staircase. "Alright, Tanya, I'll talk to them. You're right, everybody should have an opportunity to talk about... the station in private with someone. But..." He turned back around and looked squarely at me with the mien of a suddenly stern teacher gazing at a disappointing student trying to explain why her homework was missing for the fifth time in a row. "You and I are going to have a talk too – you're not getting out of it this time. You were right, people need a chance to talk, and that includes you, that includes me, and that includes Naoto. Just... please, trust us. You're one of us, so let me help you." As he made the last point, Ohgi's voice had grown increasingly intense. Seeming to notice this, he paused and took a deep breath, before saying "We're not going to think less of you because you need to talk, okay? So don't just beat yourself up."


And with that, he was gone, descending back down the stairs. And with that, I was alone again in the cold of nighttime Shinjuku, contemplating what I should do next.


---------


Over the next several days, I buried myself in managing the Rising Sun Benevolent Association. Thankfully, at least one of the objectives I'd had in mind when planning the attack on the gang market had been accomplished – not only had the Kozuki Organization managed to recoup the costs of the operation, we had managed to turn a sizable profit. Between the clean and only moderately bloodstained cash the cell's members had managed to grab, the various narcotics scavenged from both a few of the stalls and fallen gangsters' personal effects, and the jewelry looted from those same dead gangsters, Inoue estimated that we were far enough in the black to keep the Benevolent Association running for quite some time.


Admittedly, the net profit of the mission was reduced by the need to keep greasing the palms of the checkpoint guards, and would further be reduced by the costs associated with the creative accounting we'd need to do to explain where the Association was getting its funding from come tax time, but such was the cost of doing business. While the need to contribute to societal corruption was galling, it was easy to rationalize; without participating in Britannian graft, it would be impossible to feed and clothe the people of the ghetto and all of our efforts would be for naught. Of course, the Rising Sun would hardly be seeing all the money we'd earned from our strike against the Shinjuku underworld – a significant piece of our income would be going to Mister Asahara in exchange for more of his devices.


Which brought me to the other objective I'd had in mind for my plan. I'd wanted to blood my new organization in a safe, morally unambiguous manner that would guarantee that everybody would kill at least once. Ideally, this would bind everybody together, increasing organizational loyalty through the shared experience of combat, and would also ensure that everybody was truly committed to the goal of improving the lot of our people, through violence if necessary. Whether or not I'd managed to fulfill this objective was still ambiguous, to say the least.


On the good side, we hadn't lost anybody. Thanks to my careful planning and our cooperative preparation, every member of the Kozuki Cell had returned alive and physically unharmed, while our enemies had suffered virtually total losses. None of the cell's members had lost their nerve when push came to shove, and I was fairly sure that everybody had killed at least once during the cleanup down in the station. There certainly hadn't been any shortage of targets. Thus far, nobody had confronted me about the plan, and as far as I knew nobody had challenged Ohgi or Naoto in regards to their support and agreement either.


The 'morally unambiguous' aspect, however, was rapidly turning into a botched mistake in my eyes. The aftermath of the shrapnel bombs had been traumatic, and the requirement that the enemy injured had to be executed had deepened the trauma. I had overestimated both the callousness and emotional capacities of myself and my team. I'd expected shock, of course, but I had hoped that between my emphasis on the gang's nature as Britannian collaborators and Naoto's pep-talk assuring everybody that our cause was righteous, the initial shock would be the worst of it. Nobody had frozen during the brief period of active combat, and the cell was only briefly stunned by what they saw as they entered the station, but what they had seen and done were proving harder to cope with in the aftermath.


I could sympathize. Looking back, I hadn't even considered how I would feel after the operation, and if I had, I likely would have just shrugged it off and considered it unlikely that I would be overly concerned. After all, I am a combat veteran, hardened by years of combat and command, and I had been further hardened by the trauma of the Conquest and growing up in a ghetto under iron-fisted occupation. But, somewhere along the way, I had... gone soft, I suppose. I was... feeling things about this last operation, and about the impact it had had on my comrades.


I didn't feel bad in the slightest about killing my enemies, whether they be Japanese or Britannian, singularly or in batches. I felt no need to engage in a "fair fight" or warn the enemy before I attacked. I felt no regret about killing the wounded in the subway station either; none of those men would have survived for long, and letting them bleed out and suffer would have been far worse than giving them a quick death. I had been initially appalled by what I had so carefully planned out, and the sheer amount of blood and pulped flesh had been shocking as well – after all, it had been years since I'd last stood watch on the Rhine. As time went by, that initial shock from the scent of blood and shit leaking from perforated bowels faded, but I still couldn't bring myself to feel happy about the mission I had so carefully conducted.


As I tried to pin down exactly what it was about the plan that was making me feel somehow off, I kept my eyes open and an ear to the ground, carefully trying to gather up every hint of the reaction to the "Shinjuku Bombing", as it had already come to be called.


As I'd expected, the other gangs had smelled the blood in the water and set upon the remnants of the Kokuryu-kai mercilessly, avenging past defeats on the formerly rising gang and seizing as much territory and assets as they could. In doing so, a half dozen gang wars broke out between the new neighbors, with alliances and counter-alliances forming and dissolving every day. As November drew to a close and December dawned, the gang violence showed no signs of stopping or slowing down.


Despite the building's collapse, someone had managed to find the notice I'd left in the ruins of Shinjuku-gyoemmae Station – that, or someone had found one of the half-dozen other copies I'd distributed in the vicinity the next day, in case the original had been buried under tons of brick and concrete. While the initial bombing had gone almost unnoticed by the Britannians for hours, one of the notices had made its way into the hands of a reporter by the name of Diethard Reid, who had managed to blow up the story to the point where it was on the front page of the main Tokyo Settlement newspaper the next day. Lord Kewell had been compelled by his superiors, public opinion, his own pride, or some combination of the three to organize a press conference on the Bombing. While I didn't have the opportunity to watch it myself, based on the newspapers Kallen brought me after Ashford let out each day, he had done a masterful job avoiding taking responsibility for the attack while heavily hinting that the attack had been carried out by the Purist Faction. According to the editorials, the whole affair was surprisingly controversial among the movers and shakers of Area 11's government. The military leadership was decrying the rogue Purist operation, while the hardliners associated with Prince Clovis's retinue were praising Kewell as a man who clearly could get things done. The overall verdict was that the Purists had gained the affection of Prince Clovis for their "efforts to combat the criminals plaguing his fair fief", but had burnt their bridges with the rest of the Britannian military in Area 11.


As for the regular Japanese of Shinjuku... there didn't seem to be much of an opinion at all about the Bombing either way. Since as far as anybody seemed to know, no civilians had died in the blast, there wasn't the same seething current of grief and rage that Britannian collective punishments inspired. The few people who seemed to have an opinion were generally saying things like "good riddance", at least when they were sure no gang members were close enough to hear them talking. Of greater concern to the majority of the people of Shinjuku was the ever mounting food crisis. While the spiraling gang warfare was concerning, the desperate shortage of food was terrifying. The caloric income of virtually everybody living in Shinjuku was plummeting just as the teeth of winter bit, compounding the physical toll and further weakening immune systems. The winter, everybody knew, would be hard, and many would die of starvation, sickness, or exposure. More than gang fighting, more than the prospect of genocidal Britannians, the Japanese of Shinjuku feared the slow suffocating death by deprivation the Brittanians had arranged for them.


Perhaps that's my solution. How better to soothe the troubled minds of my comrades than a mission of mercy? The Britannians certainly weren't lacking in food or medicine – the ease with which the Rising Sun was able to import expired or rejected food from grocery stores proved that well enough. Still, that trickle wouldn't be enough to ward off the specter of starvation – but perhaps ramping the supply up would keep at least some of the population alive and healthy. Healthy enough to take up arms when the time comes.

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 12: A Mixed Bag (Ohgi and Kallen Interlude)


(A big thank you to Siatru, and to Daemon and Grig9700 on the Tanya Writers Discord for beta reading this chapter. Happy first chapter of 2022, everybody.)


The winter sun burned bright over Tokyo on the first day of December, but without warming the Shinjuku Ghetto in the slightest. The cold winds blowing from the west the night before had brought a wet slush to the Tokyo Settlement, and now the cracked asphalt of the streets of Shinjuku was covered in a rime of filthy ice. Kaname Ohgi cursed as he nearly slid on a patch of the black ice, only maintaining his balance at the cost of pulling his hands from the warm pockets of his jacket and windmilling frantically. Grumbling with irritation, Ohgi shoved his hands back into the meager warmth of his jacket, set his shoulders against the cruel breeze that had begun whipping itself back up again, and continued on his way down the nearly empty street. The near total lack of any other pedestrians did nothing to improve the former teacher's mood, not when he knew the weather didn't explain the empty streets, nor did the presence of the sole vehicle out this morning, slowly plodding its way over the ice.


Death in Shinjuku was common, easy to come by, and generally unaccompanied by any sort of celebration or commemoration of the deceased. Children and adults alike died of disease, of hunger, of accidental injuries turning infected for lack of the antibiotics readily available outside of the walls, and by bad luck every day in Shinjuku. It was impossible to truly mourn each dead family member, every dead friend, every neighborhood face that just seemingly vanished overnight, never to be seen again. As years had dragged on and the situation had gone from bad to worse for the once-citizens of Tokyo, Ohgi had seen more men and women than he'd care to remember dying from overdoses, from self-neglect, and from violence of all types. Worst of all were the ones who died by their own hands, intentional or otherwise.


A particularly haunting memory was of a family who had lived in an apartment in the same building as him during the first winter after the Conquest, before most people had the opportunity to learn about things like heating your room in the absence of central heating or a reliable electrical supply. The father of the family had found a charcoal burning heater somewhere, possibly a sports store, and had lit it in his enclosed apartment without opening a window or door. Ohgi had helped the other young men move the bodies down four flights of stairs to the curb outside the building once they began to stink, the warmth of the heater adequate to stave off the cold that might have kept putrefaction at bay.


Hauling the bodies to the curb was more or less the extent of the funerary service in Shinjuku. Wood and other useful burnable materials were in far too high a demand to be used for pyres, not when every scrap of lumber was earmarked for desperately needed repairs and patches in crumbling Shinjuku. Being part of the urban core, non-developed land was also at a premium, and virtually every inch of land not covered in pavement was needed to grow supplemental produce, and thus was guarded jealously. No room for the dead in the ground of Shinjuku. And so, deprived of the options of honorable burial or respectful burning, the people of Shinjuku had turned to dumping their dead at the roadside. After a few sheet-wrapped bundles had begun to accrue, the surviving families or their neighbors, or in the more well-managed parts of Shinjuku the locally organized Public Committee, would club together to hire one of the few trucks available in Shinjuku and haul the dead away for dumping.


Recognizing that a complete collapse of sanitation in Shinjuku would reduce the public health of their own people sooner or later, the Britannians had designated a dumping area in the southern end of the Shinjuku Ghetto, near a heavily defended checkpoint with an entrance gate large enough to permit the passage of garbage trucks. The dumping area, cleared via bulldozer of all old structures or roads, was studded with large dumpsters, which would be regularly emptied out by the garbage trucks. These dumpsters were the only way to remove non-recyclable, non-burnable garbage from the ghetto, and were the penultimate resting places for all who died in Shinjuku, before they were carted off to a landfill who knew where by the Britannian sanitation authorities.


One such truck was slowly making its way down the street ahead of Ohgi, stopping by each ice-frosted parcel, the sheets or rags serving as shrouds wet from the cold rain and snowmelt. At each stop, two men riding on the tailgate jumped down and began tossing the bodies up onto the open bed of the truck as quickly as possible, showing as much regard for the dead as they would for any other trash. Dimly, Ohgi noted that the truck bed was already nearly covered in a layer of wrapped bodies, and the back of the bed near the cab was double-stacked already. Busy day for the haulers.


Lately, the haulers had been doing a very brisk business. Between the ongoing spat of gang wars, the cold wet air that leeched heat from frail bodies, and the already abandoned effort to retrieve the bodies from the collapsed portions of Shinjuku-gyoemmae Station before they began to stink, the going rate for their services had climbed rapidly. While the necessity of the haulers' services was obvious, it was galling for Ohgi to think about anybody profiting off the misery of his people, and the fact that at least some of the hauling crews were affiliated to various gangs rubbed salt in the wound. It made a kind of sense – after all, getting fuel and spare parts in the ghetto practically required gang connections – but the idea that the gangs were getting paid to clean up the unfortunates caught up in their war...


Reaching the next intersection, Ohgi thankfully turned his back on the truck and its grim burden, doing his best to shift his mind away from yet another horrible aspect of life in Shinjuku he could do nothing about. Instead, the teacher-and-rebel leader turned his mind towards a task he had, if he were being honest, been putting off for the last two days. Today's going to be the day, though, Ohgi resolved as he turned his wandering feet back towards the apartment he shared with Naoto and Tanya. Further delay's not going to help anybody, and Tanya's out of the house today.


Apparently, Kallen had taken the initiative and had invited Tanya on another trip through the Tokyo Settlement. Ostensibly, it was to get a second opinion on various food and second-hand clothing purchases the Rising Sun was planning, as well as to get the younger girl's feedback in regards to an idea Souichiro of all people had come up with.


The former police officer, from a family native to the rural province of Gunma, had proposed that Rising Sun purchase laying chickens and the materials to create a number of coops around the Shinjuku Ghetto, to provide a steady source of eggs, meat, and employment to the locals. The birds could be fed in part with plant material inedible to humans, Souichiro had claimed, and partly with cheap grains purchased in bulk, and would help provide greater self-sufficiency to the Ghetto. Ohgi personally wasn't entirely on board with the idea, since any potential yield from the coops would be months in coming, months when the cheap grain fed to the birds could be used to feed the people instead, but he was content to follow Tanya's lead on the proposal.


More importantly from Ohgi's point of view was that Tanya's outing with Kallen was clearly an excuse for Kallen to hang out and socialize with her nominal junior, with a work topic acting as justification to convince the overly-diligent Tanya to quit working and enjoy a day of walking around the Britannian Concession. Ohgi wished the redheaded girl good luck with her endeavor, and hoped she took the opportunity to feed Tanya a large meal in the process; he knew that getting Tanya to quit focusing on work long enough to eat, much less have any sort of fun, was a herculean task. Kallen's annoyingly stubborn too, so she's got a chance. Ohgi smirked slightly as he leaned into the chilly wind at the idea of the battle of wills no doubt unfolding, amusing himself with the image of Kallen dragging a recalcitrant Tanya away from a rack of canned goods and towards a restaurant. And while Tanya's out and about, I've got a chance to sit down and talk to Naoto without worrying about being overheard by a certain blonde menace. While the tone of his internal monologue was full of affectionate amusement, Ohgi was quietly thankful for the chance to sit down with his old friend and speak freely. Tanya's a good kid, but the way she takes things sometimes...


That last thought was accompanied by a guilty wince, as Ohgi remembered how the girl's Britannian blue eyes had widened in shock and undeniable pain at his poorly considered choice of words. Ohgi had somewhat forgotten, in light of her intelligence and successes, that Tanya was still a child, and still undeniably scarred by her experiences at the hands of the Britannians as a result of growing up in Shinjuku. While he doubted that she knew the exact details of her mother's death, a child as smart as Hajime Tanya would certainly have realized that her mother had been killed by Britannians, and that would have made the idea of being "Britannian" even more unpalatable. The way she'd reeled back when he'd carelessly said that he'd felt like a Britannian while executing her plan had been painful, and the way she'd begun to panic when he said she needed help even moreso. The former had been a lapse of judgment, but the latter had been a genuine offer of assistance, and seeing her react so poorly to his desire to help her stung.


I'll have to make the Brit comment up to her somehow, but I wasn't wrong about her needing help, dammit! It was weird seeing a blonde-haired blue-eyed child dying of karoshi, but the symptoms were clear to Ohgi. In a very peculiar way, he reflected, her willingness to obsessively work her way into the grave truly made her Japanese at a level where neither hair nor eye color mattered. Not that they ever did, not to anybody willing to think straight. Anyone who helps our people is Japanese to me.


A few thankfully short minutes later, and Ohgi was back in the relative warmth of the shared apartment. While by no means toasty, the intact walls and ceiling at the very least kept out the worst of the cold. Naoto was seated at the table, scribbling away at something, but looked up and waved as Ohgi entered and pulled his boots off.


"How was your walk? Did it start sleeting again?" Naoto's typically friendly smile, while undoubtedly sincere, looked a tad forced, and Ohgi noted that the bottle of cheap homemade sake his friend had cracked open shortly before he'd left was nearly empty already.


"Thankfully not – there's ice all over everything, though. Hopefully it'll thaw before it rains again." Ohgi collapsed into a chair at the table, groaning with satisfaction and relief as his weary feet rejoiced in the break. "The haulers are out in force today, though. Looks like they've finally stopped digging around in the old station."


Naoto grimaced at that, and shoved the paper and pen away. Ohgi caught the pen as it tried to roll off the edge of the table, and out of curiosity stole a quick look at the paper. Naoto's usual fine handwriting, a product of remedial etiquette lessons imparted on a noble black sheep welcomed back to the fold, was sloppy and dense on the page, but it appeared to be a letter to his mother. No wonder he was drinking, he's trying to explain why he let Kallen fight. Best of luck with that, buddy.


Naoto smiled wanly at Ohgi's sympathetic look. "She's pissed, bro. If I wasn't already a bastard, I think she'd be demanding my father disinherit me for letting her baby girl get involved."


Ohgi chuckled weakly, remembering times his high-school aged self had visited the Kozuki residence. Kallen hadn't inherited her fiery temper solely from her redheaded father – back before the Conquest, and before her mental decline had set in earnest, Miss Kozuki had never concealed the sharper side of her tongue as she chided her rogue of a son and his slacker of a best friend. While he doubted that fearsome temper had survived intact the traumas and degradations of the last half-decade, Ohgi was sure that Mama Kozuki had strong words for anybody who led her baby girl into danger.


Remembering the danger said baby girl had been led into, Ohgi's laughter trailed off, and he let the amusement fall away. Seeing his change in mood, Naoto likewise let his smile drop, and the vague, alcohol-fueled mistiness of his eyes faded slightly as the leader of their cell pulled on his business persona. "What do you want to talk about, Ohgi? I know that look – spit it out."


No time like the present. "It's been two days since we carried out Tanya's plan. How are you feeling, now that some time's passed?"


Naoto drummed his fingers on the scarred wood of the table for a second, then again, not a nervous gesture but an old tick he'd had since high-school that always returned when he was presented with a tricky question. After a moment, the hand smacked lightly against the table, the fingers' frenetic movements stilled against the surface.


"Frankly, I'm absolutely astonished that everything worked out so well." Naoto's tone was straightforward, but an undeniable hint of wonder touched his voice as he began. "I mean, we both knew Tanya's plenty smart and all that, but when she came up with that plan... I almost laughed at the audacity, Ohgi! Decapitating an entire gang through the use of synchronized bombs, and then just running in and shooting everybody who'd somehow survived, all as a means of raising funds for that front charity she set up?"


Naoto barked a laugh, sharp-edged but appreciative. "But then she actually pulled it off! I never would've believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes!" A broad smile pulled its way across Naoto's face as Ohgi fervently nodded. It really had been a time when "seeing is believing". For better or worse, Tanya had proven that her first time returning to her comrades slick with blood and a truck full of captured supplies hadn't been a fluke.


"She delivered everything she promised and more, Ohgi. Enough ammunition to put at least two of those rifles we captured to use, at least for a bit. Enough speed, horse, oxy, and hash, and enough currency to keep the cell supplied for a year, with plenty left over for Rising Sun to keep feeding our people for at least a few more months, and maybe enough to expand past soup kitchens and clothes distribution. Not to mention the absolute destruction of one of the largest gangs in Shinjuku as a fighting force!" Naoto's eyes almost seemed to glow with combined wonder and glee, sharpening with satisfaction at the mention of the Kokuryu-kai's fate. "I don't even know if the whole gang war that's erupted since then was intentional or not, but with all the gangs at each other's throats, nobody's looking for us, especially not after that Purist bastard Kewell all but publicly claimed responsibility. We got everything we wanted, and still nobody knows we even exist."


Ohgi waited a moment as Naoto paused, waiting to see if the enthusiastic burst would continue, before asking his next question. "Do you have any... reservations, regrets, about the mission, or about the plan?"


Naoto smiled again at that, the earlier broad smile narrowing into a sharper, toothier expression. "Nope. At first, I was kinda shocked – never seen something like that before, y'know – and it definitely took an extra drink or three to get to sleep that night. That said..." He paused, seemingly considering what he wanted to say, before continuing. "That said, Tanya was absolutely correct about those gangsters. Whatever else they were, they were predators and scavengers, and were helping the Britannians pluck meat from our bones. Maybe that wasn't their intention, maybe they just wanted to make their own lives less miserable, but that's what they were all doing. Fuck 'em."


Naoto seemed to realize he'd started leaning in as he'd talked, and pushed back against the table, tipping back slightly on his chair's rear legs, before slamming back forwards with a wry laugh. "The only regret I've got is letting Kallen go along, but... I don't think I'm going to win that fight. Tanya was right about that too – she's part of this, and trying to hold her back isn't going to do her or anybody else any good. I was kinda hoping that seeing all that would... I dunno, make her more interested in being a schoolgirl, but I doubt that's gonna happen. Kallen was kinda shocked too, y'know, but she's even more of a fighter than I am – and now that she's killed again, and tasted a real victory again, not just winning a street fight... She's not gonna stop, no matter how angry Mom gets."


Ohgi nodded along, in full agreement with his old friend. The teacher in him quailed at the thought, but the survivor and the rebel nodded their agreement. Making a fifteen year old, a girl he remembered as a bubbly elementary and middle school student who'd loved drawing pictures for her mother, carry a gun and kill in the name of a free Japan was evil, but what was done was done. The teacher was in agreement with the rest of him about the cruelty of children, and the addictive nature of power – and what power was greater than that of holding life or death over the heads of others? When Kallen had stabbed that man to death after he'd tried to attack her and Tanya, perhaps there was still a chance for her to walk away from the savage joy of victory, and of killing, but now Ohgi was sure that opportunity had passed. The first time's the hardest... But it gets easier.


Ohgi remembered his own first kill, a desperate business months after the collapse of the Japanese government and all social order, when the Britannians had yet to implement even the scant handful of public health and humanitarian policies they'd later adopt. It had been a fight over the last few cans of food in an emergency shelter, originally designed to shelter survivors in the event of severe earthquakes or typhoons. Ohgi had remembered seeing the 'designated shelter' sign over a locked door in a shop in Asakusa in happier days. Half-starved and lacking for any better ideas, Ohgi had limped his way there, finding the lock already broken and the door ajar. The confrontation with the man, older and weaker than even his starving body, had been brutal. The only light in that shelter had been the other man's flashlight, swinging crazily and reflecting off the dull steel of Ohgi's pipe as he'd brought it down again and again and again, driven by desperate hunger and rage that the old bastard hadn't even been willing to give him a single can of ancient rations to stave off the overwhelming hunger.


After that horrible ten minutes of violence, and after he'd glutted himself on one of the three cans of survival rations still left in the shelter, Ohgi had curled up a meter away from the corpse and cried himself to sleep. He'd taken what he could carry and left hours later, desperate to get away from the horror he'd perpetrated in that basement shelter, weeping for what he had done and for all that he had lost.


The second kill had been far easier, both in execution and justification. Sorry Naoto, but if she hasn't turned back now, she's not going to.


"I think you're right about that, Naoto." Ohgi returned to the topic at hand, externalizing his agreement with his leader's conclusions. "Do you resent Tanya for helping Kallen down that path?"


"Nope." Naoto's reply was surprisingly fast, nearly overlapping with the end of Ohgi's question. Clearly, Ohgi thought, he'd been expecting that line of inquiry. "Much as I'd like to give in to temptation and shoot the messenger, I'm in charge and I made the call." A moment of drumming, before "I can't let myself treat Kallen any differently than the rest of the cell, and Tanya was right to back her up. I still think she's way too young for this, but, hey, Tanya said it herself, she's not too young for the Britannians to kill her if they ever learn about just my crimes alone." That somewhat fatalistic assessment left a heavy silent moment behind, before Naoto broke the silence once again. "Plus, it's really hard to be angry with Tanya when she's working so hard and still not eating. We've gotta figure out a way to get that girl to chill out, Ohgi, before shit gets worse."


And on that happy, mutually agreed note, their little conference broke up. Naoto returned to his letter, vainly trying to dodge maternal disapproval, as Ohgi pulled his boots back on. If he remembered the schedule Tanya had drawn up correctly, Tamaki and Inoue should both be at the Rising Sun's building today. They'd certainly welcome an extra hand, and there'd be plenty of opportunities for him to talk to each of them on their own during the day. Might even make packing those food packages a bit less tedious.


Both of his cell-mates lived up to his expectations, both very busy handling the crowd of desperate Japanese looking for extra layers, for extra food, and for able hands that could help patch shattered windows or holed walls. Inoue was busy helping people find clothes that would fit various family members, while Tamaki was burning through the prepared stack of food packages, pressing box after box into the arms of gratefully bowing ghetto dwellers. Both were clearly busy, so Ohgi put off his intended conversations for the moment and hastily began packing more boxes with food, multivitamins, and chocolate bars for four for a day.


After hours of fulfilling labor, with aching arms and a sore back, the stream of the desperate and the dispossessed slowly shrank to a more manageable level. The bitter cold of the early winter winds kept all but the most determined huddled around whatever heaters they could fuel or fires they could start, giving Ohgi the opportunity to take Tamaki aside for a quick smoke break. The younger man eagerly accepted, jumping on the excuse to get away from the distribution line for a moment, and even more eager to bum a cigarette from Ohgi – a Britannian import, not one of the so-called "hafu" hand-rolled smokes common in Shinjuku, so called because they were half trash and half tobacco, or at least half the alleged tobacco smuggled into the ghetto by the various gangs. Ohgi obliged, and after giving Tamaki a moment to get his coffin nail lit and going, took the opportunity to ask how his comrade was doing.


"Shit's going great, man. Did I tell you about the gym me and a couple of my bros got set up?" Tamaki's free hand gestured enthusiastically as babbled on. "I mean, it's not really a gym, I guess, not any real equipment or nothin', but it's not too hard to find heavy shit, y'know? Chizuo found these pipes, y'see, and welded the bottom of each shut, and then we filled each with some sand and welded the other end shut – homemade weights, y'see? Perfect for benching and blasting my pecs a bit!"


"Sounds like fun. I'm glad you and your friends managed to get something like that set up." Tamaki's enthusiasm appeared to be just as purely felt as any other emotion the hothead ever felt. I'm glad there's at least one person who doesn't try to hide their emotions. It's refreshing.


Soon, Tamaki's chatter about the improvised gym wound down, and as he took a long puff, Ohgi discarded subtlety. Taking a quick look around to check for evesdroppers and finding none, Ohgi leaned in close and asked "It's been two days since our little... job. Now that the celebration's over, what do you think about what we did?"


Tamaki exhaled a long plume of smoke, quickly snatched away by the damp wind, and smiled at his superior. "It was fuckin' incredible, wasn't it? I mean, don't get me wrong now, I wish those had all been Brits – would've been a hell of a lot more satisfyin' to put bullets in Brit heads, I'll tell you that for sure."


The younger man paused for another puff, and another long exhale, the fierce joy slowly transmuting into a more pensive mien as the wind snatched away the smoke issuing from his lips. "I think my pops would be proud of us, y'know? He was a cop, died back during the Conquest. They say he was trying to help get people outta Shinjuku once the Brits started shellin' the place, but I dunno about that. Doesn't really matter, I guess. I dunno if he'd be happy about us killin' folks, even if they are gangster scum, but I bet he'd be happy we're doin' what we can to look out for the good people here in Shinjuku."


Ohgi nodded along, content to stay quiet and listen. He kept a wary eye open, making sure that none of the men and women walking past their location huddled in the alley beside the Rising Sun building towards the door and the promise of food and warmth inside looked too interested in them, but nobody seemed interested in two men stealing a quick smoke out in the cold.


"Y'know, at first I was kinda unhappy that we were gonna sneak-attack the place. I mean, if nobody knows we did it, there's not really any glory, is there? And no glory means no rep, no babes hangin' off me and all that..." Tamaki chuckled at that, grinding out his butt against the wall before pulling a baggy out his pocket and carefully peeling the paper away, dumping the leftover shreds of tobacco into the bag. "But, well... That was a stupid thought, just a drunk thought. I mean, babes are nice and all that, but...This is the real deal now, ain't it? We're not screwin' around and robbing shit anymore, this is serious. This is how we're gonna free Japan, Ohgi, or at least make the Brit bastards hurt for once. One bloodbath after another."


Ohgi handed his cigarette butt over to Tamaki, who quickly stripped the surviving tabacco out before flicking the filter away into the alley. "I dunno how many more bloodbaths we're gonna see, Ohgi, but I ain't gonna regret a single one, not until the Brits are all gone away." Tamaki tucked the bag away back in his coat, and the two men began making their way back into the warmth of the Benevolent Association's building. "I just hope I live long enough to brag to everybody about how many of the bastards I killed along the way! The honeys won't be able to keep their hands away, you'll see!"


Thankfully, Ohgi didn't have to brave the cold of the evening again to buttonhole Inoue. As soon as he and Tamaki returned to the open room that made up most of the first floor of the Rising Sun's building, Inoue immediately grabbed Tamaki and put him back to work before he had the chance to wander off again, chiding him for taking a break without telling her and Ohgi for enabling his escape from work. Soon, both men found themselves once more distributing boxes of food to the hungry residents of Shinjuku. A few minutes of ignoring Tamaki moaning about his tragic fate to suffer under such harsh discipline later, Ohgi demonstrated his leadership skill by delegating the remaining work to his subordinate's capable hands.


Inoue was seated at a small, rickety desk in the semi-separate room at the rear of the first floor. Back when the building had been home to an insurance agency, the small room had been some sort of conference room or office, separated from the main room by a glass wall and sliding door. The frame of the first remained, but all the glass was long since shattered, leaving an illusion of separation rather than a truly separate room. This small area housed what could be called the office area of the Rising Sun, including the ledgers describing both donations and "donations" made to the Benevolent Association, as well as other books tracking purchases made with that money and records tracking how much aid had been distributed to the people of Shinjuku per day, and of what variety. The books were, as Ohgi knew, best characterized as creative fiction, reasonably close to the truth but full of holes and unexplained transactions that obfuscated both the source of much of the money and expenditures like how much fuel had been purchased for the Rising Sun's rented trucks.


As Ohgi approached, Inoue looked up from the ledger she was transcribing the day's distributions into, and waved Ohgi over to a stool on the opposite side of her desk. She looked as put together as always, indigo hair neatly combed and pinned back, a faint furrow on her brow from glaring at ledgers in dim light all day, and grey eyes brimming with a fierce intelligence. While Naoto's leadership had bound the group together and Ohgi's social skills had kept the members of the cell on the same page, Naomi Inoue's negotiating ability and connections with the various factions and blackmarket operations had kept the cell armed and supplied, albeit with Naoto's money. Tired from hauling boxes and reasoning that any attempt at subtlety would immediately be seen through by the cell's logistics officer, Ohgi didn't bother beating around the bush. "Hey, Inoue, it's been two days. How are you holding up?"


"It was very profitable, our mission, and for that I'm glad." Inoue leaned back in her chair, ignoring the ominous creaking, and smiled at Ohgi. "I'm sure Tanya put you up to this, right? 'Hey, Ohgi, make sure everybody's doing okay and still likes me.' That sounds like her."


Ohgi laughed at that. Apart from him and Naoto, and perhaps of late Kallen, of the cell members Inoue had spent the most time with the youngest member of the Kozuki Organization. Between familiarizing herself with how business was done in Shinjuku, keeping the Rising Sun operating, and planning out the cell's future expenditures as Tanya had planned out her latest and greatest operation, the two had spent quite a bit of time together. Unlike any other member of the cell, the blonde had taken to Inoue's world like a duck to water, seeming to understand all the lessons the older woman had to teach almost instinctively. While Ohgi saw the girl as a promising student, with – if he were being honest with himself – the slightest dash of paternal affection, he was fairly sure that Inoue saw her as a protege who would one day surpass her master. As such, it was unsurprising that she'd recognize Tanya's hand behind his movements, although he'd been planning on speaking with the various cell members even before his post-celebration conversation with Tanya.


"Yeah, yeah. I mean, I was going to do it anyway, but when a spooky little girl tells you to check up on everybody, you'd be a fool to ignore the warning." The words were light, but Ohgi meant them nonetheless. Perhaps by dint of surviving in the ghetto as an obvious and malnourished outsider, Tanya had cultivated an extraordinary degree of empathy, although one that manifested itself in strange ways. At times her behavior was almost overly-solicitous about the health and well-being of her fellow comrades, while at others she flinched away from even the most casual touch, eyes wide like a hunted animal.


That said, even if Tanya's perceptiveness was born of paranoia and thus tainted, Ohgi couldn't blame her for it and wouldn't ignore her recommendations. Anybody who had survived five years of nigh-solitary life in Shinjuku, and anybody who could unleash the frighteningly effective violence that always seemed to bubble just beneath that porcelain skin, was well worth listening to. Especially if they were none-too-subtly warning that your fellows might be on the edge of a post-traumatic psychological break.


Inoue laughed and nodded. "I get that. Well, you can tell her that I'm fine, whenever you next see her. Those gangsters were a pack of thieving, raping murderers, and I don't regret killing a single one of them. Plus, thanks to everything we took from that pit, the Rising Sun and our own organization will be adequately funded for some time, so it was absolutely worth a few sleepless nights."


The chair's front legs landed back on the floor with a loud thump as Inoue straightened back up, ticking points off her fingers. "Yeah, I had a few nights of bad sleep. I've never seen something like that before, and seeing that much raw, shredded meat would make me a vegetarian if we had that sort of luxury. Yes, I'm concerned about the civilians who are undoubtedly getting caught in the crossfire of the gang war even now as I'm talking with you, but nobody thought the gangs would just go away peacefully." The logistics officer paused for a moment, before shaking her head with irritation. "Honestly, the only things that truly concern me are the impact on the Shinjuku market scene, and Tanya's garbage excuse for a diet."


Ohgi hummed in agreement. "I think I know where you're coming from on the later, but I'm not as sure that I fully understand the former concern. What sort of impact are you expecting our actions are gonna have on the blackmarket?"


"We're going to see the death of the middle level of the market, at least for a while." Inoue replied bluntly. "The family and individual level barterers aren't going anywhere, and the big fish that cater to the Britannians'... appetites," Her lip curled with disgust and scorn, "aren't going anywhere, they're just going to beef up their security. But the weekly meets? Those are done. They're not coming back. Even if the gangs decide a week from now to stop ripping out each other's throats, the stability and organization of the whole structure's been toppled."


Inoue tapped her cheek with the pen she'd been using before Ohgi had walked in, her expression pensive as Ohgi carefully listened. "This is going to have significant knock-on effects, Ohgi, both positive and negative for us. On the negative side for everybody but the Brits, it's gonna sharply reduce any sort of economic activity in the ghetto. The low level barter economy can't keep up, and once the gangs start smuggling goods back into Shinjuku, they're probably going to pursue more of an individual retail approach, rather than selling things to smaller groups at weekly meets, who'd turn around and sell the goods to everybody else. Nobody's got the infrastructure to fill that void right now, so everybody's gonna go short-handed. On the plus side for us, that's going to break the gangster's stranglehold over the market in Shinjuku in the long run, as people find alternative sources for staples and learn to do without everything they can't find. On the negative side specifically for us, it's gonna be a lot harder to buy weapons since somebody blew up a weapon's market and killed everybody in attendance. I could go on, but I think you've got the idea."


Ohgi nodded thoughtfully. Everything Inoue said made sense, and in retrospect seemed like the obvious results of a major bombing attack. He wondered why none of these possible effects had occurred to him when he and Naoto had signed off on Tanya's plan. Probably just tunnel vision – we got too focused on if we could do it to wonder "what next?"


"Thanks. I'll have to go over all that with Naoto. I know Tanya was talking about trying to increase the quantity of food shipped into Shinjuku, and Souichiro had that chicken idea, but if you're sure that the availability of other goods is going to take a nosedive too... We should see if we can expand our inventory range a bit." Ohgi found a dogearred scrap of notebook paper that didn't look like it had anything important written on it and started jotting down notes. "I'm assuming that medicines are going to be at the top of the list, right? That could be tricky – buying generics in bulk is probably gonna require some sort of contact, and we won't be able to bring in insulin or anything else that requires special care... Gotta find out who needs what, and how to get people what they need..."


"I've already got something started on that score." Inoue reached down into one of the desk drawers and hauled out a folder stuffed full of pages of notes. "I've been talking to the people who've been coming in to get food and clothes, and asking them if any of their family members or neighbors have any conditions they need medicine for. Thankfully," Inoue's face tightened at the word, but she pressed on. "Thankfully, very few people with chronic conditions live long in Shinjuku, so we won't be needing to worry about insulin. While I would like to find some way to get these people the medicines they've been relying on gang imports for, I think we should focus on ramping up the multivitamin supply and increase the amount of antibiotics Rising Sun has in stock, as well as building up a supply of pain killers, although we'll have to be careful about that last one. Anti-inflammatory pills would help relieve some chronic pain, which might increase the number of people who can work, which makes them a priority. And, birth control pills, for both reducing period pain and also as contraceptives."


Ohgi quickly jotted down the list of suggestions as Inoue continued. "Alright, leaving the medication question aside until we find some way to source generics without bankrupting Rising Sun... We've begun buying up some water filtration kits for people to use in their apartments, but we should try to expand that effort... We need to find a way to get more cooking fuel in, since supplies from the gangs are going to be scarcer and more expensive... Coats and blankets, and waterproofing materials..."


Tearing his mind away from the rabbit hole of all the many, many needs of the Shinjuku Ghetto, Ohgi remembered that Inoue had expressed a concern beyond the market supply question. "Oh, before we get too distracted, wasn't there something else you wanted to talk about?"


Inoue snorted, and shoved the multiple folders of notes she'd begun to pour over back into the desk. "Yes, Ohgi, there was. Namely how Tanya's apparently trying to work herself into the grave, and how she only eats when prompted to do so." Inoue shook her head with annoyance, before glaring at Ohgi, who resisted the urge to quail away from the look of righteous fury that pinned him to his stool. "You're her fucking adoptive father, Ohgi – why the hell aren't you making her eat and sleep? She already looks half-dead, and I swear the only time she eats is when I hand her a sandwich while she's working and she just starts instinctively munching on it!"


"Hey, I'm not her father!" Ohgi waved his hands frantically in a fruitless attempt to deflect responsibility. "And how do you think she's responded to me and Naoto trying to convince her to eat, eh?! When Naoto suggested she fatten herself up to look like a Britannian, she stopped considering infiltration work and started planning instead! When I told her she needed to eat to be effective, she looked terrified, like I'd said I was going to kick her out on the street!" Aware that his frustration on the issue had begun to spill out into a long suppressed rant, Ohgi forced himself to calm down and take a deep breath. He'd been incredibly uncomfortable about embracing Tanya's role as a combat-capable member of the cell to begin with, and watching her stress herself out and skip meals since she'd been "promoted" hadn't helped his internal sense of guilt in the slightest. It's not Inoue's fault, he firmly reminded himself, she's just as concerned as I am, and yelling at her is unfair and stupid.


A second later, Ohgi began to speak again, more calmly this time if not the slightest bit less emphatic. "We can't order Tanya around like a kid when she's killed more people than everybody else in the cell combined, especially not since she just planned and executed the biggest and most successful operation we've ever attempted. Every attempt Naoto and I have made to convince her through logic has failed. Whenever I seem to express any concern for her in the slightest, she looks like she expects me to hit her. I don't know what to do here, Inoue."


His comrade sighed, reached across the desk, and patted Ohgi on the shoulder. "It sounds frustrating, and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have acted like you were just ignoring her." Inoue leaned back in her chair again, letting the front legs lift off the floor once more. "Maybe you're overthinking it a bit? I mean, I get what you're saying about not being able to order her around like a kid, and you're right to a degree, but... maybe you should, in this case?"


Ohgi opened his mouth, before closing it again as Inoue gestured for quiet. "No, really, I think you guys were absolutely right to take her seriously and treat her as an equal – when it comes to working for the cell. Outside of that sort of work environment, though? I hate to break it to you Ohgi, but she's still a kid. Her mom only died... what, four months ago? She'll be twelve soon, right? She needs some support, even if she'd definitely disagree about that. Sit down with her and tell her, in as unambiguous a way as possible, that you're worried for her and that she needs to eat. And then, follow that up by making sure there's always food around her. Whenever I'm working with her, I just leave some food by her, a sandwich or a bowl of soup or whatever, and she'll eat it while she's working."


Ohgi had spent a fair amount of time deliberately trying to not see Tanya as a child, someone who in another world might have been in his middle school math class. He had partially done this so he'd have less trouble taking her seriously as a comrade, but mostly it had been an effort to ignore the whole child soldier angle. As a result, while he could see the practicality of accepting Inoue's advice, he found himself loath to do so.


It's a bit late to have scruples now. You're willing to overlook Tanya's age, not to mention Kallen's, when it's beneficial to your goals, but you're not willing to cope with your bullshit enough to make sure they're as healthy and safe as they can be? And you call yourself a responsible adult...


Ohgi shivered slightly at that thought. No, I don't call myself a responsible adult. I can't. I'm just as fucked up as anyone else. I'm a murderer. I... I just want to hold onto some degree of sanity, some degree of civilization... But, anything for the cause, right? That's what Tanya said to Kallen, according to Naoto, and that's what Kallen's taken to saying too... Anything for the cause...


"You're right." The words were like chalk, and forcing them out felt like it took every ounce of will Ohgi possessed. "You're right, she is a kid. And she's not eating, and someone needs to step in."


Ohgi rose to his feet, the exhaustion of physical labor nothing compared to the spiritual exhaustion this conversation had produced. "I'll let Naoto know about your suggestions for the Rising Sun's next inventory purchase, and... And I'll sit down with Tanya over a nice big meal once she gets back from doing whatever she's up to with Kallen." Picking up the note he'd taken of their conversation, Ohgi carefully tucked it into an inner pocket of his jacket, away from any possible infiltrating sleet. "Thanks, Inoue. I think that I needed to hear that as much as anything else. Have a good evening now."


Waving goodbye to Tamaki as he left, Ohgi ventured once more out into the cold. The sun had now almost disappeared behind the skyline, and the day's icy rain was quickly becoming just ice once more on the streets of Shinjuku. Carefully picking his way down the pavement, Ohgi made his way back home, trying to marshal his thoughts for the battle of wills to come.


---------


"Look, I know you're incredibly busy, but you've got to eat." Thus far, the talk had proceeded about as badly as Ohgi had feared. He'd returned to the apartment shortly after Tanya had, and found the girl already buried in her work. Ohgi had almost given in to the temptation to put off the confrontation in favor of joining her in planning out the cell's next move, and indeed had pulled the notes from his conversation with Inoue out with the intention of adding it to the pile of scrawled notes sitting in front of Tanya. Thinking about that note had reminded him of the end of their conversation, and Ohgi had felt the iron jaws of responsibility close around his legs. He knew he wouldn't be able to outrun the stressful social situation no matter what he tried, and so decided to take the direct approach.


From across the table, big blue eyes narrowed at him as Tanya looked up from her papers. "Naoto said he'd be back soon. I thought it would be prudent to wait until he'd returned to have dinner."


Resisting the urge to take the out she'd offered, Ohgi firmed his resolve and leaned forward. "I'm not talking about dinner specifically, I'm talking about in general. You've been skipping meals, and you only eat when someone else prompts you. Don't think I haven't noticed how you've been waking up with the sun to start working early too."


The curiosity in Tanya's eyes hardened into defensiveness, and Ohgi internally kicked himself. Dammit, too aggressive. Now she's going to start justifying herself. "It's important to work hard, not only for ourselves but for everybody in Shinjuku." Tanya's tone was cool, and at one point Ohgi would have said detached as well. Months of familiarity, coupled with his own experience dealing with recalcitrant children, let Ohgi recognize the shaky tone of fear concealed by the cold tone. She's desperate to prove herself, to be the most diligent and committed... Why? Does she think we'll look down on her otherwise? It was a silly assumption, if true, but one that made a degree of sense. The poor girl didn't get much support from her mother, from what she's let slip. She probably feels the need to prove herself so we don't ignore her too. She... wants attention? No, that's not it...


"You're right." Ohgi was slightly gratified to see her eyes widen, momentary surprise at his agreement shaking her defensiveness. Attacking her certainties isn't the right way to go. I'm not trying to tear her down, I'm trying to help her.


"The people of Shinjuku, and the rest of Japan, do need our help. And you're doing lots of very important, very impressive things to help them. You're a big help." Ladle on the encouragement, let her know that her efforts have been noticed and appreciated. "And if you want to keep helping people, you need to help yourself." Don't tell her that she's been doing anything wrong, just give her help to grow in the right direction.


"I know Naoto told you about the potential benefits of looking more Britannian, but I know that idea's got some... baggage... associated with it. In that case, let me put it this way – if you eat more, your muscles will develop better and your bones will be stronger, which will reduce the likelihood of injury and will improve your level of energy. Being more energetic will keep your genius brain working as best as it can, and it'll reduce the chance of you overlooking something or making a mistake." Her abilities and intelligence are important to her, clearly. Confirm her own self-image, but indicate a path to further achievement.


"Plus, you want to hang out with Kallen in the Britannian Concession sometimes, right?" Ohgi smiled, letting his firm 'teacher face' mellow, and winked at the impassive Tanya. Increased growth potential and stability in her own image are both carrots, but she's also a social animal, and an extra incentive never hurts anything. "If you want to go and 'reconnoiter' the Tokyo Settlement, that's perfectly fine – you don't need to be on duty all the time, and the Britannians would never expect two pretty young girls having fun at Clovisland to be terrorists. But if you look like you're about to keel over, that's gonna attract some notice, right? Plus, people might assume you're Kallen's servant, and she's been mistreating you, and you don't want to draw attention to her, yeah?"


A cautious nod was the only immediate external response Ohgi got, but he thought he saw her eyes turn thoughtful. I know you, Tanya. You overthink everything, and it's incredibly frustrating. Well, two can play that game. But now that she's thinking about it, time to give her a route forward before she gets creative and proposes her own.


"Look, you're a smart girl, so I'm sure I don't need to tell you all of this." Ohgi paused for a moment to let the praise settle, before continuing. "But we all need help sometimes, and as your superior in the cell and as your friend, I'm going to help you too. You and I are going to eat together for the next two weeks – at least two meals a day, hopefully three. You can keep working while we eat, if you want, but we're going to get you back into the habit of regular meals. After that, I'll stop nagging you to eat if you keep it up, okay?"


For a moment, Ohgi was sure that Tanya was about to either hit him or attempt an escape. Her fists tightened around her pen and her jaw worked furiously, chewing away at nothing as her eyes darted around the room. Finally, with a grudging sigh, her hands loosened and her shoulders slumped. Her eyes seemed to suddenly flatten, and she looked down at the table. "As you command, sir."


Ohgi felt his own hand twitch with sudden anger at both himself and Tanya's seemingly almost deliberate attempt to misunderstand what he was trying to say and do. Dammit, Tanya, I'm trying to help you! Can't you see that? I'm not trying to control you, I'm not trying to put you in your place! I just want you to take care of yourself!


Keeping his own jaw firmly locked, Ohgi took in one long, deep, soothing breath through his nose, and then another. "Tanya, I just don't want to see you work yourself to death. I respect you, Tanya – you're far more intelligent than I am, and you've already survived so much. You're already an incredible fighter, and you're well on your way to being an awesome leader. Please believe me when I tell you that I am not trying to humiliate you or make you submit or whatever. I'm concerned about you, and I want you to take care of yourself."


Ohgi suddenly felt like he had plunged through some hole in the floor, and was now free-falling. Being this open about his emotions, especially with a child, felt uncomfortable, especially since he'd put his foot in his mouth the last time he'd attempted sincerity. That said, Kaname Ohgi couldn't see any other option other than sincerity to convince Tanya that he said what he meant. Her fiendish mind would see through any subterfuge, and any attempt at coercion would be beyond useless.


"You'll go far, if the Britannians don't get you or you don't burn yourself out. Japan will need people like you, people with intelligence, vision, and experience, to lead us all in rebuilding ourselves when we are finally free once more. Japan needs you alive far more than she needs a martyr – and we need you, Hajime Tanya, alive too. Not just because of your raw ability, we need you for you. You've earned your position as one of us many times over – so let us help you too, just like you've helped us, okay? It's not a crime to need help. Everybody needs some help sometimes, and I want to help you when you need it."


Tanya neither moved nor visibly reacted, and Ohgi sighed once again. Another fuck-up. I screwed up somewhere along the way. Dammit.


Ohgi started to get up from his seat. He knew a lost cause when he saw one, and at least he could get dinner started for the first of their enforced shared meals. Before he could do more than shift in his seat, he faintly heard a whisper, and immediately stopped. "Sorry, Tanya, I didn't hear you."


"Thank you, Ohgi." Her voice was louder, but Tanya's tone still sounded wispy, insubstantial, quite different from her usually assured and confident presentation. Acknowledgment, even tenuous, even perhaps forced. Time to stop while I'm ahead so I don't look like I'm rubbing her nose in this "defeat".


"You're welcome, Tanya."


By the time Naoto returned with a sack full of canned sardines and three fresh oranges of mysterious providence, the latter a luxury in early winter, the pot on the hot plate was bubbling merrily, and the aromatic smell of canned beef stew had filled the apartment. Tanya was already deep into her first bowl, and Ohgi was content with a minor victory that banished the memory of the haulers and their grim cargo away – for the first time in weeks, he was sure he'd actually gotten Tanya to understand something he had said completely unambiguously. A minor victory, but hopefully the path to something far more substantial in the future.


---------


The clock was striking thirteen as Kallen Stadtfeld neatly settled into her assigned seat during her study hall period. Every move as she folded herself down onto the cushioned chair was done just so, skirt neatly arranged over properly positioned legs, hands carefully folded demurely in her lap in perfect accordance with the etiquette lessons pounded into her head after her father had officially adopted her as his heir. The room was warm and airy, the overhead lights perfectly moderated to maintain a gentle luminescent glow ideal for contemplating one's homework; the entire artifice of the classroom was a world apart from the coldly gusting wind driving fat droplets of rain into the windows.


Kallen also felt a world apart from the introduction to physics textbook open on the desk in front of her, a diagram of a spring-scale with carefully drawn vectors ignored completely. Around her, the other young lords and ladies of the student body gossiped, chatted, and flirted with abandon, textbooks and homework alike lying ignored on their desks as well, but even that superficial similarity seemed to separate her from her peers; none of them, the youngest Kozuki was sure, had walked through an abattoir of humanity, had heard half-flayed and disemboweled men whimper for water, for their mothers, or simply moan in unfathomable pain.


The memory of those staring eyes, pupils contracted to pinpoints even in the near-darkness of the decaying train station, nearly made Kallen flinch from the memory, but grimly she pursued the images of that slaughter, refusing to let even a single detail slip away into the darkness of the tunnels. She threw the memory of pointing the pistol her friend Tanya had handed her earlier that day at supine figures at herself again and again. The first one she'd killed had been little more than hamburger, missing his right arm completely and his legs from the knees down. In all likelihood, he'd only been a bit older than herself, probably younger than Tamaki, the youngest of her brother's friends.


Kallen desperately wanted to recoil from the memory, to cram every second of the fifteen minutes or so that it had taken to end over a hundred human lives deep into her memory to never be thought of again. She'd tried to do just that with her first kill, with the sensation of driving a knife into his neck as hard as she could. Ultimately, not only had that attempt to simply run from the memory failed, Kallen had realized it was a weakness that would come back to haunt her. When she'd smelled the blood and seen the bodies on that platform, that memory and all the emotions connected to it had flooded back in, the sensory cues and the adrenaline from running and gunning her way down into the station blowing away every attempt at suppression and leaving her pale and shaking. Her Big Bro's embrace had reassured her, cradled her in a warmth she had desperately needed in that moment, but it hadn't drawn her out of that stunned state. Only Tanya's voice, as stable and as compelling as it had been on that filthy side street, had anchored her to the present and forced her to keep moving.


And moved Kallen had, joining her comrades in executing the wounded and cramming her pack with anything of value she could find. That day, in the darkness and dust of that platform, she had truly been sealed to her new comrades, and had drawn strength from the new bond she had formed with everybody there, even the two newcomers she'd only met that day. All of them had come out of that station with hands red and dripping, if only metaphorically – all of them had dipped their daggers, and been sealed together by a shared experience intimate in a way she was only beginning to grasp. The guilt had faded quickly as she drew on both her brother's and her friend's words: Their actions were unquestionably righteous, blessed by the gods of their ancestors and by the glorious cause they fought for; all whom they had killed had been scavengers and parasites, rapists and thieves, and all were willing to trade weapons for any who offered the coin, even if the hand offering that coin was sworn to the throne in Pendragon.


What had haunted Kallen after the attack had been how... easy, it had all seemed, and how good it had felt. She knew intellectually that the ease of the attack was due to the careful plans Tanya had drawn up and all the legwork and preparations her cell-mates had carried out, and that they'd had the element of surprise on their hands. Coupled with Tanya's insane levels of skill with her pistol, Tamaki and her barely keeping up with the tiny blonde, it perhaps wasn't a surprise that the stunned and disorganized survivors of the pipe bomb blasts hadn't had a chance. It had still felt too easy, though, and killing those survivors had felt almost intoxicating. The knowledge that a simple squeeze of her finger, a slight push against her palm, and a life was snuffed out... The powerful sensation as she had pointed her gun at the young triple amputee weeping on the platform... It had felt nearly godlike.


If that's what it feels like... So different from my first time... I can see why the Britannians are always so eager to murder more Japanese.


That had been what had disturbed Kallen, why she'd had difficulty sleeping of late and trouble keeping her mind on her classes or on her task of gathering intelligence. The knowledge of that high, that drug... since she had tasted that forbidden fruit, Kallen had flogged herself with the memory, the sensation, over and over again, chastising herself with the knowledge that it was wrong to feel like that, that it was one thing to kill but another entirely to enjoy it.


Cursed blood... That has to be it. My mother's Japanese, but my father's Britannian... Now that my hands are as red as our hair, I wonder if he'd still love me? It was his blood, after all, that made me like this, I'm sure...


Her outing with Tanya two days ago had helped settle Kallen's troubled mind down just a bit. Going out together for a nice day in the Britannian Concession and just doing normal things together had helped settle her frenzied mind, and had helped her remember just what normality was. Sure, they were checking the prices of water filtration devices and warm sleeping bags, of bulk bottles of aspirin and of cheap yet serviceable shoes, all for the Rising Sun's future purchases, but they'd done normal stuff too. She'd managed to haul Tanya into a department store to try on some new clothes, but Tanya had only let her buy her a pair of gray canvas pants and a black down jacket, plus some fresh socks and underwear. Decidedly not cute, but Kallen could concede their practicality for walking around in Shinjuku without drawing unwanted attention.


After their brief clothes shopping trip, Kallen had bribed Tanya out of her sulk with a quick trip to a crepes store she'd discovered a few weeks earlier on her way back home from Ashford. After promising to pay for everything, Kallen had pressed her advantage as the sponsor of the trip and had bullied Tanya into ordering a particularly large crepe, full of fruit and whipped cream, with hazelnut spread on the interior of the pastry and chocolate syrup drizzled over the cream. It had taken some doing to get the damned waif to accept the crepe, but once she'd started to dig in it had been remarkable how fast Tanya had destroyed the crepe. The look of pure blissful satisfaction as she'd reclined in her chair like a sated lion had made the expenditure and the effort entirely worthwhile, in Kallen's book.


Smiling faintly from the memory of a sleepy Tanya, face smeared with whipped cream, Kallen pulled herself back into the present. Her information gathering efforts had already yielded fruit when she'd dug up Kewell Soresi's name and connections with the Purist Faction. That tidbit had been seamlessly incorporated into Tanya's plan to sow chaos and disorder between the gangs and the Britannians, and between the competing factions in the Area Eleven Administration, and the squabbles that Lord Kewell's press conference had kicked off continued, with statements from both sides of the dispute mysteriously "leaking" to the press, who published the potshots with barely concealed glee. The Shinjuku Bombing had become a minor scandal to one side and a symbol of victory to the other, and as the Britannians sniped at each other nobody seemed to notice or care about anything actually happening in the Ghetto.


Just as planned.


Now that Kallen had a definite victory under her belt, a sign that her efforts to gather intelligence from the careless lips of the Ashford student body were worthwhile, it was time to expand her operation. Up until now, she'd simply wandered the halls of Ashford, flitting like a proper social butterfly from engagement to engagement. This was all well and good, as it made her a known and welcome quantity at any number of social engagements with any number of social groups among the students, but it also made it difficult to dig or to show interest without tipping her hand. As a social butterfly she was innocuous, but it also only gave her a cursory amount of information about any one topic before the flow of conversation moved on. Such surface level intelligence was useful for garnishes like pinning the responsibility for the bombing on Kewell, Kallen thought, but very little beyond that.


The question, then, wasn't whether or not Kallen should plunge herself deeper into the social scene of Ashford Academy, but how she should do so.


Milly Ashford, granddaughter of the principal and pain in Kallen's ass, had casually mentioned months ago how she had free access to the school administration's records, a freedom that she freely abused to discover the personal details of students that caught her eye. Unfortunately, attempts to get said details out of the infuriating girl had proven fruitless; Kallen didn't know what game they were playing, nor the rules, but she was certain that Milly held the high score and was simply toying with her. It was an infuriating situation for a number of reasons, but Kallen couldn't figure out any way to lever the former heiress's secrets out. She had considered simply abandoning the social game, cease trying to win Milly's friendship, and simply breaking into the school office and going through the records herself, but Kallen had regretfully abandoned that idea almost immediately. Who knew what kind of surveillance was operating in Ashford, or what kind of security forces would respond to a potential burglar? If she was caught in the act, her life as Kallen Stadtfeld would be over, and her background would be carefully examined – Naoto would surely be brought in, and it was all downhill from there after that.


Another potential strategy would be cozying up with the other notable gossips around the school. Like any high school, and doubly so for a place crammed with the cream of the local good and great, there was no shortage of gossip-mongers, and some were so well informed and sought after to be practical queens of the school – or at the very least duchesses, as none contested Milly's dominance over the student body. Kallen had considered attempting to ingratiate herself with one of these social power-brokers, but had quickly discarded that idea as well. Such a strategy had all the same drawbacks as dealing with Milly. Furthermore, the only way to buy her way into such social circles was if Kallen had particularly choice morsels of gossip to offer. Since all of the morsels she had that might be considered interesting were in some way tied to her rebel cell's interests, Kallen thought it would be a very bad idea to let anybody know exactly what information she had been collecting. Besides, people as socially savvy as those gossips certainly would realize what sort of information Kallen was looking for, which was another way her secret life could end up exposed. And so, just like her fantasy of burglarizing the school office, Kallen dismissed that idea as well.


After dismissing her first two ideas, Kallen was left with her third idea, the safest by far of the three. So far, she hadn't committed to any particular extracurricular activities, despite Milly's chiding to "get engaged and meet some cute boys – or girls!" Reluctant as Kallen was to go along with any suggestions from that particular blonde, joining an extracurricular organization would give her an excuse to snoop and probe, if she could hide behind the purposes of her chosen club. In that light, either the yearbook club or the student newspaper would serve her purposes – the yearbook club was constantly watching the student body, constantly snapping pictures, while the student newspaper under Milly's reign had a practically free hand to interrogate any student they desired, so long as they wrote sufficiently entertaining stories. Of the two options, the student newspaper was definitely the preferable choice; in between investigating whatever inane stories she was tasked with, Kallen would have plenty of options to follow up on any tasty morsels some fool let slip, all in the name of "journalistic rigor".


Soon, the bell indicating the end of Kallen's study hall period rang, heralding the start of her brief window of lunchtime freedom. Sandwich in hand, Kallen made a beeline to the office of the faculty advisor in charge of the newspaper, and caught the man before he'd left his office for his own lunch. It was the work of three minutes to sign up for the newspaper club, complete with a handshake from the amused teacher as he ushered her back out of his office so he could lock up. To Kallen's mingled surprise and annoyance, Milly Ashford was waiting for her outside the teacher's office, her smirking smile as broad as ever as she casually leaned against the far wall.


"How'd you find me here?" Kallen couldn't help herself, the surprise loosening her tongue just long enough for her annoyance to take control. Immediately, she snapped her mouth shut, blushing at the momentary lapse as that infuriating bitch Milly chuckled, a demure hand to her mouth somehow making her laughing face even more intensely irritating than her typical smirk.


"Oh, a little bird told me a certain redhead was sneaking into a teacher's office for a lunchtime rendezvous." To Kallen's disbelief, one of Milly's eyes closed in a lascivious wink, and that awful smile seemed to grow somehow more eminently punchable. Kallen quickly looked around for the teacher, hoping he'd been close enough to hear that comment and take the other girl to task for her insinuation, but the educator had clearly known what was good for him and was power-walking away down the hall.


The useless bastard!


"Congrats on finally signing up for some extracurriculars! It's good for us girls to get used to taking on a hefty, meaty schedule – don't you agree?" Cursing her blushing cheeks, Kallen resigned herself to enduring another conversation with Milly, and fervently hoped for an opportunity to escape. Milly, for her part, looked like she was enjoying every drop of Kallen's embarrassment, an inquisitive eyebrow raised over a nakedly amorous grin. "I know you've been toying around with the possibility for a while, Kallen, but as your friend, I'm happy to see you stretch yourself out a bit!"


Kallen felt helplessly at sea, totally out of control of the conversation. The embarrassment at Milly's crass sayings fed her desire to once again taste that power of being the one dishing out the pain, which slammed up against the need for self-control. Why is she messing with me like this, dammit?! Doesn't she know how furious it makes me?!


The internal whining was surprisingly helpful. As Kallen attempted to answer her own question and ignore the increasingly explicit teasing, she realized that this whole encounter was by no means accidental. Milly had somehow known where Kallen was going quickly enough to position herself outside the office, and hadn't shown any signs of being out of breath. Either she followed me here, or somehow she's keeping close enough tabs on my movements to know where I am at all times. She's trying to keep me distracted and off-balance so I don't think about that! The embarrassment remained, at least on the surface level, but the heated rage brewing in Kallen's belly disappeared as the ice water realization swept through her. I don't even know why she wanted me off-balance, or why she bothered to show herself at all. Is this some kind of weird dominance play?


Kallen found that she really was beginning to hate Milly Ashford personally, not just as a symbol of the youth of the Britannian ruling class. The way Milly ground her overwhelming social dominance in Kallen's face, the way she not only effortlessly ran rings around her but also made sure Kallen knew she was toying with her, the constant sexual harassment, the way she kept dropping hints that she knew more about Kallen than Kallen wanted her to know... Every interaction she had with the fallen noble made Kallen hate her slightly more. In a small, petty way, she felt like Milly represented every bit of Britannia's self-proclaimed supremacy, and couldn't help but feel like one of the tanks of the long-dead Japanese Army, helplessly trying to keep up with the Knightmare that danced around her, always just barely ahead of her tracking cannon.


She's got to go. The thought bubbled up from somewhere deep in Kallen's mind, deliciously seductive and poisonous. The idea of shutting up that constantly mocking face once and for all with a knife up through the soft meat behind the chin, up through the soft palate at the back of the mouth... She knows too much about you, probably. She's going to hand you over to the authorities, and once you break, they'll haul Naoto, Mom, Dad, Ohgi, and Tanya in too... Being honest, Kallen had no idea what Milly knew, but she definitely knew that giving in to the urge to murder would certainly end up with her behind bars or, if she was lucky, dead herself. Not now... Not now... She'd take the bullying and taunting a while longer, Kallen decided. Anything for the cause... "It's part of your sacrifice for Japan too, isn't it?"


Kallen stuttered out some excuse, turned on her heel, and fled, running away from temptation and from the mocking laughter that echoed after her. She so desperately wanted to do to Milly what she had to the last person who had held her down and tried to force themselves on her, but she couldn't, not here and not now. She knew she was making a mistake, running away like this – running from bullies always made them more hungry to hunt you down, like the predators they were. Despite Naoto's best efforts, Kallen had learned that lesson in the dark years between the Conquest and when their father had reclaimed them. That must be what Milly knows... Just like all those other Brit bastards, the half-breed is a fun target... "Almost better than an Eleven, since Elevens are just animals, but half-breeds are close enough to human to be fun..."


After school, Kallen had her first meeting with the student paper's staff. It was a fairly informal group, and after her introduction she practically vanished into the woodwork as the other members fought over potential stories and assignments. The editor, the head of the club, handed out assignments with the same air as a queen on her throne bestowing favors to favorites, and hurling the scraps to the rest.


Eventually, as the feeding frenzy died down, Kallen found herself tasked with investigating a potential haunting, of all things. Apparently, a ghost had been seen darting in and out of the Student Council's clubhouse at night, and that qualified as a news story worth investigating. Who had reported this apparition was a mystery, as was the reason why they were out and about on the campus and outside the dorms some students live in, but nobody else had been interested in pursuing this story. Some had said they didn't want to waste their time on silly fantasies, others said it was too creepy for them. Kallen personally believed that nobody wanted to have to come back to school in the middle of the night, and so she as the new girl had been stuck with the unenviable ghost hunt.


Kallen saw the assignment in a different light, of course. Not only would it give her a night guaranteed to be free of her step-mother, but Milly was part of the Student Council – the president, as a matter of fact. Anything that Milly was involved in almost certainly had access to private information regarding the student body, and the fact that the Student Council apparently had an entire building all to themselves virtually guaranteed that there'd be something worth her time in that building. The whole ghost story gave her an excuse to linger around the place late at night, when nobody else would be around, not to mention a reason to poke her nose anywhere she wanted because she "saw something over there!"


Since the Student Council clubhouse was locked at night to prevent any skullduggery not explicitly authorized by Milly Ashford herself, the first step in Kallen's assignment was hunting down a Student Council member to give her the key. Fortunately, the secretary of the Student Council was an avid member of the swim club, and thus easily found.


Shirley Fenette proved to be a gregarious, easy-going girl who was happy to meet the newest member of the student paper's staff. She had also proven to be a remarkably easily spooked person who went white as a sheet at the first mention of a ghost haunting the clubhouse, and who had practically torn her locker open in her haste to throw her key to the building at Kallen. After a polite thank you and a personal promise to get to the bottom of the alleged haunting, which she was sure was nothing but silliness, Kallen found herself in the possession of both a key to the Student Council clubhouse and a surprisingly stern admonition to stay on the first floor and not try to access the second floor. Apparently, it was "totes off-limits! Don't even think about going up there, kay?" A second personal promise later, and Kallen had both the means to access the Student Council clubhouse and an excellent idea of the first place she should check for her "ghost".


By ten o'clock that night, Kallen was inside the opulent interior of the Student Council's pocket kingdom. Even by the standards of a noble girl, accustomed to the rococo of Stadtfeld Manor, the first floor of the Council building was richly appointed. Kallen even felt vaguely guilty about dripping rain on the deep plush carpet, ludicrous though the feeling was. Why the hell does the Student Council need a goddamned mini-mansion!? Her recent excursion with Tanya had given Kallen a keen understanding of how much money it took to keep people alive at a subsistence level, which made the ridiculous finery even more aggravating. The fucking carpet alone could probably feed a hundred Japanese for days!


Forcing the thoughts of starving Japanese families out of her mind with almost practiced ease, Kallen began dutifully snapping pictures of the admittedly gorgeous interior on her student paper-issued camera, doing her best to capture anything that looked remotely spooky under the automatically activated lights. Unfortunately, the true horror of the place couldn't exactly be captured on film, so Kallen simply contented herself with taking pictures of the more unusual decorations, including a remarkably badly taxidermied peacock that had apparently been mounted by Ruben Ashford himself, explaining its presence in the formal receiving room. What she didn't find were any computers or suspicious file cabinets crammed to the brim with blackmail material, much to Kallen's dismay.


As she meandered about the first floor snapping the occasional picture, Kallen noted any visible security cameras as well as any way up to the second floor. She discovered a total of four ways to access the upstairs: the broad, formal staircase up to the second-floor foyer, a pair of elevators at either end of the building, and a locked door at the rear of the building with a small unobtrusive stairway icon. Kallen also noticed that there were plenty of visible security cameras in virtually every room in the clubhouse, but oddly enough none were around either of the elevators or the mysterious back staircase. So whoever set up the security system here decided to actually conceal the cameras in those areas, meaning they're the only important part of this whole heap...


Kallen mulled her options over as she continued to snap pictures of any shadow that crossed her rangefinder, before deciding that her new role as a rookie journalist would be plenty to explain away a bit of ill-mannered nosiness. Keeping up her meandering path, she slowly made her way back to the mysterious locked door with the stairway icon, finally coming to a halt and snapping a final picture of the pale wood door. Audacity, always audacity – and journalistic privilege! Kallen pulled a hairpin and a nail clipper from the pocket of her uniform blazer, and started fiddling with the door lock, completely aware that the unseen cameras and whoever was behind them were watching her. I'll just tell them I saw the ghost phase through the door – what're they going to do, expel me?


The dimly remembered lessons from her Big Bro proved more than enough to beat the flimsy single-tumbler door lock, and soon a distinctive click echoed through the empty hall. With a sigh of relief, Kallen returned her tools to her pocket and tried the door. The handle turned easily, but the door remained stubbornly closed. Examining it more carefully, Kallen realized that the lock built into the door's handle was nothing compared to the solid three-inch bar of waist-height steel she could barely make out in the narrow gap between the door and the frame. There was no obvious opening mechanism on this side of the door, and Kallen suspected that it was a maglock, which would require the precise movements of a magnet over a specific patch of the door to unlock – her father had a similar mechanism installed on the door to his study, although certainly not such a substantial model. The door itself was on close examination only paneled with wood – the echo and weight of the thing indicated that something substantially stronger was under the tasteful facade. Whatever's up on the second floor, someone's really serious about keeping it under wraps... Presumably the Ashfords... Fuck, another secret I need to get out of Milly, somehow...


Stowing her camera, Kallen decided to call the night a bust and headed back out into the rain, uninterested in meeting whoever might be keeping an eye on the cameras. If someone was protecting something that seriously, she doubted they'd be interested in her claims of journalistic freedom. But that means that whatever's behind there is definitely worth further investigation... If they're willing to let all this wealth be guarded by a single lock... whatever's up on the second floor would definitely interest Tanya.

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 13: A Communal Dinner


(A big thank you to Siatru, and to Daemon, BlueBezerk, and Grig9700 on the Tanya Writers Discord for beta reading this chapter.)


The first Friday of December started pleasantly enough; though it was wet and cold outside, in the small studio I shared with Ohgi and Naoto it was warm and dry. Yesterday's rice, combined with a can of condensed milk purchased during an excursion to the grocery stores of the Tokyo Settlement, sat cooling on the now deactivated hotplate as I dug into my bowl of rice pudding. I'd dimly remembered it from the childhood of my long-ago first life, when my grandmother had made it as a special treat whenever her only grandson came to visit her. Thanks to Kallen's access to the Britannian equivalent of the internet, it hadn't been too hard to find a one-pot recipe for rice pudding, and now that I had the money to buy some good ingredients and the time to enjoy my food, I saw no reason to not indulge myself just a bit. It wasn't the same, of course, as some old family recipe lovingly perfected over the generations, but still tasted like a return to childhood.


After eagerly spooning another bite into my mouth, I grabbed the orange sitting by my bowl and started peeling it. After watching me burn through the oranges I'd brought back from my first trip with Kallen to a Britannian grocery store, Naoto had ensured that there were always oranges waiting for me in the apartment. At first, I'd been a bit hesitant to take advantage of my sudden access to citrus fruit – after years of hard living and watery miso, it seemed like an unimaginable luxury to have fresh fruit on demand. Coupled with the coffee I'd purchased during that same trip to the grocery store, it felt like an almost decadent level of comfort, a degree of indulgence that would isolate us from our neighbors. Fortunately, nobody had tried to rob us, and the other denizens of the apartment building were just as alternatively friendly or standoffish as ever, depending on the neighbor in question. I suspected Ohgi's generally well-liked persona as a kindly teacher had done a great deal to soften any resentment.


After all, that persona's not entirely fabricated. Maybe they're hoping he'll share with them?


The teacher in question sat across the table from me, a summer sausage on a cutting board in front of him, slicing thin medallions from the sausage and popping them into his mouth sandwiched between crackers. I'd given him both items after returning from my most recent trip outside Shinjuku as a small token of thanks, as well as to give him something to eat during our shared meals that wasn't soup. Whatever other virtues the man had, I couldn't abide the way he loudly slurped soup, and if we were going to share meals I was determined that as few of those meals as possible would involve soups, stews, or other broth-based foods.


It was quickly becoming clear that I'd been at least somewhat off base in my initial estimation of Ohgi's character, particularly in light of the heart-to-heart conversation we'd had about my dietary habits. To my shame, he had seen far more clearly than I had that my previous work-life balance was wildly unbalanced, and that I had been letting myself go. It had been a shock when he'd bluntly informed me that he'd be enforcing a more balanced daily routine, and for a brief moment I'd been resentful of the encroachment onto my personal autonomy, but that had only been the immediate knee-jerk reaction. Before I could even fully sort out the logic behind his sudden intervention, he'd uncharacteristically just... opened up.


The emotional deluge that followed had been stunning in the extreme, but also deeply affirmational. My work had been noticed, and my worth had been seen and appreciated; even better, Ohgi didn't see me as a charity case or as the abnormality and near-basket case I knew myself to be, as I had feared when he'd told me I needed help – he saw me as a comrade who needed assistance. How could I deny that I needed help, when I'd let myself waste away as I'd stressed endlessly over the operations of the Kozuki Organization and the Rising Sun Association? How could I deny his help, when I'd made it a point in the past to help out my comrades when and where I could?


If I wasn't willing to accept help, could I really call myself part of the organization? I'd told Naoto that Kallen would only be fully accepted as one of us if she shared the risks – and in the sharing of those risks, in running onto that dark subway platform with us, gun in hand, I'd been proven correct. Sitting at the table with Ohgi, listening to his impassioned plea to let him help me, I'd realized that this was a risk too that I had to share with the people I depended on to get me into a cushy job after the war. Letting Ohgi tell me when I was wrong, when I was hurting myself without helping our people, and accepting help from my fellow terrorists... That was part of being a member of a tightly-knit organization. It wasn't a weakness to accept help when one needed it – after all, the Japanese weren't weak when they accepted my help, they were hungry. And I was hungry too.


And so, as I peeled my orange and watched Ohgi carve slices off the preserved meat, I continued to work on reconstructing my mental model of the man. He was intelligent, but not shockingly so. He was charismatic, but not in the same captivating way Naoto was. He was essentially a leader of the everyman, more approachable and personable than Naoto, and usually entirely able to deal with any minor problem or concern. He was a capable killer who had no qualms nor concerns when I'd laid out my plan for depopulating a train station, but he'd also been entirely willing, eager, even, to help out the other members of the organization deal with their own concerns after the battle. Overall, while he was many things, it seemed increasingly unlikely that a sadist was one of them.


I recognized that this could be some sort of elaborate deception that Ohgi was playing on me, that he was indeed just as monstrous as I'd suspected, simply with a far better mask than I'd ever anticipated. I also recognized that train of thought led to insanity, and that being overly paranoid was at least as dangerous to my continued survival and membership in the organization as being overly secure in my current sense of success.


Ohgi's insistence that I actually sit down with him and eat a minimum of two meals per day had proven to be an unexpected masterstroke. Being mandated to carve out time in my schedule for said meals had been a bit of an inconvenience, until I realized that I could take as long as I wanted to sit and eat and unwind and not be accused of shirking. After all, since the breaks were the product of my direct superior and roommate, nobody was going to chide me for simply relaxing for a few precious minutes instead of working through my lunch hour. Beyond the sudden freedom to eat in peace, spending the required time with Ohgi had forced me to get over the initial awkwardness I had felt after that conversation. Sitting in chilly silence would have been decidedly uncomfortable, after all, and probably wouldn't have reassured him that I would continue to eat regularly into the future after my period of supervision ended; plus, it would have gone against the clear spirit of the order, namely to work on actually forming mutual relationships with my comrades instead of just bossing them around all the time.


Looking back on it, between the large, regular, relaxing meals, the casual chatter that usually accompanied said meals, and the multiple trips I'd taken with Kallen into the Britannian Concession, the last week had been unexpectedly pleasant. Now that Kallen was well and truly a full-blooded member of the organization, she was proving to be an incredibly diligent worker; only a day after my uncomfortably emotional conversation with Ohgi, I'd found myself in a camping goods store, comparing the price and quality of a wide range of potentially useful gadgets. We'd gone down a wishlist of goods provided by Inoue, investigating thermal underwear and warm sleeping bags before making our way to the display of water filtration devices. Down the list we'd gone, debating the relative thicknesses of fabric and the price per replacement filter in quiet Britannian, Kallen correcting my pronunciation as we went. We'd ended up leaving the store without making any purchases, but with a wealth of information to direct future purchases by the Rising Sun, and with my Britannian ever so slightly improved.


Looking for new opportunities to practice my rusty Britannian and to shake the lingering traces of the Empire from my words, I followed Kallen into the department store, even permitting her to hold my hand as we made our way through the lobby and up the stairs so we wouldn't be parted in the throng of eager consumers, chatting about trivial things as we went. I'd found myself so engaged in our conversation about the latest Ashford Academy gossip that I hadn't even noticed our destination until we'd arrived at the "Junior Miss" section, and it was only then that I realized how the school chatter had begun to bend towards the current winter-time trends over the last few minutes. I saw the eager gleam in Kallen's eyes and resigned myself to my fate, deciding that if being dolled up for the older girl's amusement was the price of the language practice, I'd pay that price.


Fortunately, Kallen might have been a noble, but she had no more love for frills and fancy dresses than I had, and all of the outfits she proposed were at least free of skirts, thought I had to put my foot down when she'd offered me a pair of short-shorts that didn't go further than my mid-thigh. I'd known from seeing Kallen's outfits, including her school uniform, that the Britannians were decidedly more... liberal... when it came to coverage than either the Imperials of my past life or the Japanese of my current time, but I wasn't so impressed by Kallen's fashion sense to let her bully me into tiny shorts and leg warmers. Fortunately, pleading the necessity of blending in to the Shinjuku crowd had convinced her where concerns about the cold had failed, and the ridiculous shorts were returned to their rack in peace. In the end, I'd ended up richer by a pair of nice hard-wearing pants and a warm jacket in comfortingly bland colors. Remembering the hard-earned lessons of my past, I also took the opportunity to pick up new socks and underwear – dry socks were more valuable than gold on the front. I'd seen multiple men succumb to heinous cases of trenchfoot and other fungal infections after prolonged wear of filthy underwear and socks; I had no desire to feel the skin rot off my body, not when perfectly acceptable cotton replacements were available for a competitive price, all paid for by the House of Stadtfeld.


Apparently, Ohgi had gotten Kallen in on his plan to make me eat whenever my stomach had the slightest available capacity, as no sooner were we back out in the cold of the mid-afternoon than I found myself being gently but firmly led to "The Crepes of Britanny", an unexpectedly Francois cafe for a Britannian colony, but apparently nonetheless popular. It was standing room only as we waited in the line, and Kallen took advantage of our wait time to "encourage" me to "consider" ordering the largest crepe on the menu, a monstrous pastry full of fruit, crème, and hazelnut spread. Realizing that the long arm of Ohgi had already forbade all resistance, I limited my token resistance to a minor sulk, which conveniently gave me an excuse to remain silent as Kallen ordered for both of us. The sulk disappeared as soon as the food arrived, and soon I found myself fearing diabetes as I crammed my mouth full, yet found myself helpless to resist the insane sweetness of the delicacy. The chocolate syrup worked into the crème filling was enough to even allow a degree of forgiveness for the Francois to enter my heart. They may have killed me the last time around, I mused, but at least they can make an excellent pastry. The fact they pulled one over Being X to boot was pretty impressive too.


Overall, it had been a thoroughly enjoyable trip, from a personal point of view, and another mark of Kallen's development as a skilled agent from a more professional perspective. The important information gathering process had been cloaked under the wider blanket of a "girls' day out", the stop at the camping store just one of many stops at many different stores and attractions, including an amusement park. If I hadn't known that Kallen had invited me to the Tokyo Settlement expressly so she could get my input on potential Rising Sun purchases, I never would have realized that had been the point of the trip, especially since it had been such a brief part of that long, lazy afternoon.


Two days after that first trip, she'd invited me out for a second trip to the Concession, later at night, and while she'd passed on word of the peculiar security measures around the Student Council Clubhouse, it had been over mocktails and gourmet sandwiches at a trendy bistro, as a violinist played Vivaldi in the background. I wasn't exactly sure why she hadn't simply passed that information on to me via text, but I appreciated her superb taste in restaurants nonetheless. Honestly, between the near-constant pace of our text conversation, when she was out of school, and these recent meetings in the Concession, I was starting to worry that I'd somehow imparted my overzealous work ethic on Kallen – it would be bitterly ironic if in my attempt to reduce my own stress I'd managed to accidentally overwork the heiress of the Stadtfeld Family, a far more important and connected player in the broader Kozuki Organization than myself. I had considered sitting down with Kallen as Ohgi had with me, but so far the younger Kozuki had shown no sign of burnout, and since I frankly found myself greatly enjoying the restaurants she'd introduced me to, I decided to hold off on the meeting until signs of overwork actually presented themselves.


Yes, overall, it had been a wonderfully relaxing week of relaxation and recuperation. That said, it was about time to bring my informal vacation to an end; pleasant as it was to worry about nothing more than filling my face and gathering information with Kallen, winter was already biting at the people of Shinjuku, and I couldn't in good conscious stay in this apartment feasting on oranges and pudding any longer.


"Ohgi," I mumbled around an orange slice, "We've got a problem."


It truly was impressive how quickly Ohgi had his sidearm drawn and pointed at the door. Within three seconds, he'd dropped the knife, hurled himself to his feet, and pulled his gun. Equally impressive was how vibrant the blush that crawled up his neck was as he realized that I hadn't moved nor shown any sign of concern. I decided not to say anything about it as he picked his chair up from the floor and sat back down – no need to rub his nose in his jumpy reaction, especially considering our line of work.


"The Ghetto's still starving, and we're only reaching a small slice of the population with our daily food boxes." I didn't have anything approaching a census of Shinjuku, but I knew that it was unlikely that more than three percent of the population at most had managed to get food aid from the Rising Sun. "We need to figure out some way to expand distribution, maybe by setting up multiple other offices around Shinjuku, but I don't know where we're going to get the funding necessary for additional sites."


Ohgi gravely nodded, the familiar furrow indicating concern wrinkling his forehead below his pompadour. "Yeah, Inoue estimated that we've got enough money from the last mission to keep the Rising Sun running for about seven months if we stick to food distribution, but only about three months at most if we want to keep providing clothes and construction materials."



"Which, I think, we very much do. Canned food only goes so far – we need to keep up with the other projects too." Of that I was certain. The food, more varied than the typical ghetto diet, was an important step, but without adequate shelter and warmth, not to mention access to common medication, diseases would still run rampant through Shinjuku. "All of that requires money, but we're still lacking reliable income streams."


Ohgi chuckled grimly. "Yeah, I guess raiding the gangs doesn't really constitute a regular income stream." The furrow in his brow deepened as he glared down at the smoked sausage on his plate. "Inoue thinks that we more or less kneecapped the economy when we blew up those arms-dealing bastards. It... concerns me that we potentially damaged far more of Shinjuku than we expected..."


"She's right." I'd talked with Inoue over the last week too, and I agreed with her conclusions. It had already been difficult doing business in Shinjuku before a hundred odd merchants and their gangster bodyguards had ended up entombed beneath half an office building. "That said, pulling the gangs out by the roots was always going to hurt, considering how deeply embedded they are here in Shinjuku. The longer we put it off, the worse it was going to get. Besides..."


I took a deep breath before I continued. I no longer feared that Ohgi would throw me out of the group for speaking my mind, but this would be a tough pill to swallow for the former teacher – it was difficult for me to even admit it to myself, but the writing was on the wall. "We're not going to be able to help everybody, Ohgi, not this winter and not in the foreseeable future. There's just not enough resources in Shinjuku to keep everybody alive, much less healthy. There's, what? Two hundred thousand? Two hundred fifty thousand people? All crammed into twelve and a half square kilometers of developed land, with incredibly limited imports. The only economic export we've got is bodies, who either get unskilled work and poor pay or are exploited by criminals and foreign aristocrats." I closed my eyes and rubbed at my brow with frustration. "As far as food or social support goes in the Ghetto, we're it. Nobody else is going to step in to help out the Japanese. And we're only able to support a hundred, a hundred fifty households, at best."


"Are you only just realizing this, Tanya?" My eyes snapped open at the unexpected response, but Ohgi's tone had been gentle, and there was no hint of mockery on his face. "Do you remember what subject I used to teach, back before the Conquest, Tanya?"


"Math." The word fell from my lips. Of course he'd run the numbers before – so why wasn't he feeling overwhelmed by the sheer scope of the task I'd set for us? "You used to be a math teacher."


Ohgi nodded and smiled slightly from across the table. "That's right, and I sat down and worked out a rough estimate of Shinjuku's food requirements years ago, and I felt the same way you did. There's no way we'll ever be able to keep everybody alive. The only reason Shinjuku's still as densely populated now as it was then is because the Britannians keep pushing more people inside the walls as the Settlement expands." He shrugged, smiling at the futility. "But since you came up with the Rising Sun idea, we've done everything we could to help. We've poured time, money, and effort into getting the people of Shinjuku what they needed. I don't see anything we could have done better, in terms of building a charitable organization from the ground up while simultaneously gearing up for a war with the gangs."


I don't know what expression I had on my face, but whatever he saw clearly amused Ohgi, whose reassuring smile stretched and grew into an amused grin. He leaned forward and stretched across the table, reaching out just far enough to tousle my hair, before I reared back in my chair out of his reach, to his amusement. "C'mon, don't beat yourself up about this, Tanya! You're not perfect, and nobody expects you to deliver perfection." Ohgi straightened back up in his chair, and regained his businesslike expression. "Besides, there's a potential source of funding available, if we're willing to reach out and grab it."


I ran my fingers through my hair, straightening it back out as I frowned at Ohgi. "I understand that selling amphetamine in the Settlement would be a significant moneymaker if we could the operation off the ground, but I still think it's far too much risk for the sort of penny-ante gains we'd make until we found a way to make and ship the product on an industrial scale."


Ohgi was already shaking his head by the time I was halfway through my sentence. "I'm not talking about dealing drugs, I'm talking about potential patronage."


"Potential patronage?" The idea stopped me in my tracks. While I knew we were only a deniable asset to Lord Stadtfeld, I'd just assumed that seeking out any other financial backers would be seen as a sign of treachery by Naoto's aristocratic father. But, if Ohgi was suggesting it... "Who do you know with money, Ohgi? Have you been holding out on us, and you're secretly the bastard of some old Japanese noble clan or something?" While I was mostly joking, I was being somewhat serious. If Ohgi really had been sitting on a connection powerful enough to be called a backer, that was incredibly suspicious.


"No, no, nothing that dramatic." Ohgi smiled, but shook his head. Figures. Two noble bastards is one thing, three would be overdoing it... "And I don't actually know the moneybags in question, to tell you the truth. But, I do know of them. They're called the 'Six Houses of Kyoto', and they're either the biggest traitors in Japanese history or the backbone of the resistance to Britannia, depending on your point of view."


I'd long wondered how Britannia managed the all-important Sakuradite mines, not to mention the transportation networks, refining facilities, and other attendant infrastructure. It had been the main casus belli of the Conquest, almost six years ago, and by all accounts the bulk of Britannian military strength in Area 11 was concentrated around the mining complex at Mount Fuji. According to Ohgi, when the Britannians had effectively conquered Japan in a day, they'd captured the Sakuradite industrial apparatus completely intact. After consolidating their hold on the newly dubbed Area 11, the Britannians had opted to keep not only the old facilities, but also the families that had owned, operated, and managed those facilities as well. The industrialists had turned their coats and had cheerfully provided the Britannians as much Sakuradite as they wished, and as far as the public knew that state of affairs continued through to the present.


However, in the underground network of resistance organizations large and small, word had gotten out that the reviled collaborating plutocrats were also in the business of sponsoring rebellion against Britannia, providing arms, funds, and connections to any group that caught their eye and delivered results in the war against the occupiers. Somehow, the Britannians supervising the Six Houses had completely failed to notice the illicit activities of the allegedly loyal Honorary Britannians who controlled their strategic resource extraction industry.


This answered many questions for me, including why the few Japanese I'd heard mention Kyoto always spat. Apparently, the wealthy aristocrats and plutocrats of the Six Houses hadn't been the only ones to embrace Britannian subjugation within the first year of the Conquest; the entire Kyoto prefecture had mostly gone over to the Britannians as part of a deal to avoid any fighting in the ancient capitol, and since then many Honorary Britannians who had found favor in the eyes of the Area Administration had moved to Kyoto. It was impossible to tell how many of those new Kyoto inhabitants were like Souichiro's son "Keith", and how many were part of the same secret operation as the Six Houses.


Frankly, I was deeply suspicious of this faction of well-heeled aristocrats. It was impossible to tell what role, if any, their convictions and loyalty to their homeland played in their decision making; what was very clear was that this group was extremely good at playing both sides to guarantee their survival. It hadn't escaped my attention either that one of the many services the Kyoto group provided, according to Ohgi, was the delivery of advanced weaponry for free or for a reduced price, meaning that they likely were the ones manufacturing said weaponry. Nothing is better for an arms dealer than an endless war, and I darkly wondered how many arms contracts the Six Houses had filled for Clovis la Britannia in his efforts to put down the rebellion they themselves had fostered.


I wonder if they've got any publically traded stock available – that sounds like an incredibly safe investment.


" – Anyway, Nagata says that Asahara Hiyashi has a line of contact to one of the Six Houses, and thinks that Mister Asahara would be happy to bring us to Kyoto House's attention. For a suitable price, of course." Ohgi finished his explanation and popped another sausage and cracker mini-sandwich into his mouth. "I don't trust 'em, but money's money. Plus, if they donate to Rising Sun, that might help their public relations problem too, and it would help us pump more food into Shinjuku in no time."


I thought about it for a long minute, and then another. If we could establish a connection between a rich bloc and Rising Sun, the Kozuki Organization, or both, all kinds of possibilities would open up. We'd have enough money to invest in long-term projects, like Souichiro's idea of building chicken coops throughout Shinjuku for meat and eggs, or Inoue's idea of setting up fungus farms down in some of the deeper, wetter parts of the subway tunnels. We'd perhaps have enough funds to secure a supply of TDAP vaccines to start vaccine clinics for the children of Shinjuku, reducing childhood mortality and preserving the workforce of tomorrow. We might even have enough money to implement Ohgi's idea of a school for the Japanese, one that would actually teach something useful, unlike the Shinjuku School for Elevens. If the Six Houses could get weapons into Shinjuku, it would also make it much easier to break the gangs once and forever, and perhaps then we could turn our attention towards the Britannians... On the other hand, these men were clearly not to be trusted. Any help they gave would doubtless come with many attached strings. Not to mention the fact that, if they ever actually got found out after they publicly donated to Rising Sun, I doubted Inoue's fraudulent bookkeeping would fool the Britannians for long.


An army can't run without 'beans, bandages, and bullets'... And 'gold is the sinew of war'...


"Please ask Nagata to visit Mister Asahara at his earliest convenience to inquire about the price of arranging a meeting." Best to kick the can down the road a bit. No need to jump into a piranha pool at the drop of a hat, but no need to reject the potential benefits either. Plus, if Asahara's middleman's cut was too steep, I could always wait until the Six Houses contacted us themselves. They'll notice us sooner rather than later; if Ohgi's right about their reach, they've definitely got spies in Shinjuku.


After a quick wash-up, I made my way out of the apartment, bundled up against the December cold with my new jacket hidden under Ohgi's battered old black sweatshirt. Despite the cold and the ice coating the pavement, I smiled as I stepped outside onto the bleak Shinjuku street. Across the street from the apartment building's entrance, a bright yellow flier topped by a radiant red half-sun peaking over the black line of the horizon desultorily flapped in the breeze, pulling at the nail that anchored it firmly in place. I knew that there were at least fifty of these posters nailed up around my area of Shinjuku – after all, I'd hammered that nail into place late last night.


Regularly eating with Ohgi had reminded me of other shared meals, long ago and far away. Those meals, taken in bunkers, trenches, snowy forests, or all-too-rarely in actual mess halls, had frequently tasted awful and had completely failed to fill the stomachs of my soldiers and even left my tiny body quite peckish. All too often, the shared meat ration had to be cooked over a campfire, resulting in burnt outsides and bloody raw interiors, the potatoes had been soft and putrid, and the bread had been full of sawdust; despite all of those drawbacks, and despite my carping at the time, I wouldn't have traded those horrible dinners for the finest restaurant in Berun. The shared misery, coupled with the occasional bottle of illicit liquor shared between everybody but me, had built a strong bond between the men and women of the 203rd, myself included. And when it had been Vi... Visha's night to cook, the army rations had been edible, even something close to enjoyable... Hunger might be the best spice, but a shared meal fulfilled the fighting soldier spiritually as well as physically.


"Why not bring all of Shinjuku in on this?" I'd asked Ohgi, after making sure that a communal meal would also meet my mandated shared meal requirement as well. "Are you more likely to help a friend you've shared a meal and conversation with, or some neighbor you've only ever met once or twice a year?" And so, I'd changed up the Rising Sun's program for today – instead of providing our usual food packages to go, we'd be serving a communal meal of rice and beans, along with boiled cabbage and carrots. It wouldn't be fancy, but hopefully it would be filling, and it would give the attendees an opportunity to sit down in a warm room with food and water and get to know each other. Ideally, this sort of communal activity would inspire mutualistic relationships between both the members of the community, and the community and the Rising Sun Benevolent Association. We'd need all the help we could get before things in Shinjuku were settled, after all.


Tamaki, Nagata, and Naoto were already waiting for me outside the Rising Sun building by the time I'd managed to pick my way through Shinjuku's icy streets. All three were bundled up, but they still seemed to be in good spirits, despite the chill.


"Morning!" Naoto noticed me first and loudly greeted me, waving both arms over his head as if he was concerned I'd somehow fail to notice him among the sparse crowd of pedestrians. "Glad you're finally up and moving, sleepyhead!"


My scowl did nothing to dent his irritatingly high spirits, but it did make Tamaki laugh. Truly, I am beset by treachery on all sides! No, wait, one of my so-called comrades remains true!


Doing my best to suppress the smirk that threatened to ruin my stoic demeanor as Tamaki nearly fell on his ass after stepping on a patch of ice, proving that there was some justice in the universe after all, I turned to Nagata and handed over the folder I'd brought with me from the apartment. "Since you're the only adult I see here, Nagata, you get the paperwork. Congratulations."


Nagata accepted the folder with a wry smile, turning and waving it at Naoto. "Better watch your back, Naoto – Tanya's put me in charge for the day."


"A coup, is it?!" Naoto took a dramatic pose, setting a foot on the first step of the approach up to the Rising Sun's entrance, pointing dramatically at Nagata. "Tamaki, defend my rule!"


Before Tamaki managed to take a step towards Nagata, presumably to try grappling the lanky man into submission, I decided that this was more than enough fun and games. "Fight on your own time! You've got beans and cabbage to pick up!"


The folder I'd handed to Nagata contained several manifests and order forms, all bearing the signature of Rivalz Cardemone authorizing the purchases. I hadn't felt the need to ask Kallen to bother the boy for approval, of course, since I'd long since made a rubber stamp of his signature. Nagata and Naoto would be spending the day in the Concession, renting a truck as per usual and hauling in a shipment of bulk-bought rice and beans, as well as a supply of cabbages and carrots purchased from an Honorary Britannian operated farm outside of Tokyo, plus a shipment of cooking oil, gasoline, and vitamin pills. To cap it off, they would also be hauling in several large portable electric ranges I'd ordered at the camping supply store during my trip with Kallen. Most of the food was earmarked for tonight's meal, and as such the schedule was tight. Who knew how bad traffic in Tokyo would be, after all, or if some guard decided to shake Nagata down for an extra large bribe?


After I explained my reasoning at length, at a very reasonable volume and with a minimum of chastisement, Nagata and Naoto were soon on their way, and a cowed Tamaki followed me into the Rising Sun. We had a busy day ahead of us too, getting the main hall of the Rising Sun building set up with as many tables and chairs as we could fit into the former office space. Besides, we also had to filter and boil a large amount of water, both in preparation for cooking tonight's food and so our hungry attendees had something to wash down the bland yet cheap food we'd be providing.


Thankfully, separated from his fellow miscreants, Tamaki buckled down and helped me haul the collapsible tables and folding chairs the Rising Sun had acquired back during our initial setup. As he got the table legs straightened out, with much cursing and anger as the abused furniture kept trying to close on his fingers, I began the process of filtering and boiling the water we'd need. The process was hampered by the slow spluttering pace of the tap, and I mentally added "refurbish the water mains" to my growing wishlist for Shinjuku. Honestly, it's a shock the Britannians haven't cut off the utilities entirely yet. Sure, the sewers frequently leaked and the storm water drain system was completely busted, but somehow most of the ghetto still had access to at least some clean water. No guarantee that'll last, though.


It was somewhat of a dull day, but I enjoyed the simple yet fruitful work. Naoto and Nagata returned in plenty of time, and soon the ranges were connected to the generator installed in the basement of the Rising Sun building. The sounds of peeling and chopping filled the air as several large pots of rice simmered and the beans began to boil, warming the dining hall. The other members of the Kozuki cell slowly filtered in and started helping out with the food prep, or in Souichiro's case, unpacking the boxes of disposable bowls, cups, and cutlery from the back of the truck. Nagata briefly disappeared, but returned soon with his wife Ami in tow. I'd never met her, nor their child, who had been left with a local grandmother for the night in exchange for a to-go bowl of beans and rice, but I could see that Nagata hadn't been fantasizing when he'd spoken fondly about his wife. The couple were obviously affectionate with each other, and judging by Ami's rough and calloused hands, both were working hard to provide their little family with a better future.


As the sun began it's early winter-time retreat from the sky over Shinjuku, our first guests for the night began to arrive. I recognized most of them as frequent recipients of aid from Rising Sun, men and women who had accepted our help before, and in lots of cases had turned around and contributed towards helping their community. I greeted the few I had met during the handful of times I'd helped distribute food or clothes, and pointed them towards the start of the food line. Since food preparation had more or less been accomplished, I left Tamaki to keep stirring the still-simmering pots of rice and beans while directing Naoto and Chihiro towards the food line to serve up the boiled vegetables and the entree. I tasked Souichiro, who had come with his pistol under his jacket and a baton hanging from his belt, to man the door and keep an eye out for trouble, and had Inoue and Ohgi, as the two most frequent helpers at the Rising Sun, circulate through the growing crowd. Nominally, they were supposed to bus cutlery and cups that could be reused to Nagata and Ami, who had set up a washing station behind the food line, but I wanted them to primarily start up conversation with the people who came to eat. The point of this event was, after all, to help build a community, which might require a little ice breaking. I took up a ladle and stationed myself by the large steel pot full of boiled water, ready to fill cups. We'd left it, along with the two other pots full of filtered and boiled water, in the back alley under cover for a few hours, so it was nice and icy cold.


As I scooped water into waiting cups for thirsty diners, I kept an eye on the increasingly packed room. The fliers had done the trick, and lured by the prospect of a free meal in a nice warm room, the citizens of Shinjuku had come. Children clustered around parents, but every child had their own bowl – nobody would have to share a single serving tonight. Entire family's took up the ends of tables, elderly matriarchs surrounded by family. Groups of young men and women formed their own clusters, and of course the omnipresent bottles of cheap sake and homemade rotgut soon made their appearance, passing from hand to hand. The sounds of laughter and chatter filled the hall, and through the growing crowd Ohgi and Inoue shuttled, making a joke here, dipping into a quick conversation there, introducing this person to that group and so on, coming back to the rear of the room every now and then to drop piles of plastic cutlery into the basin of soapy water or sodden paper bowls into the trash can. It was hard to tell how many people had come through the line, as some people came through to get second servings, or to ask for covered bowls to take back to bedridden relatives or to neighbors staying to look after children, but I estimated that we had fed at least three hundred and fifty people a nice filling dinner by the time five hours had passed. Nobody seemed particularly eager to leave the warmth of the Rising Sun's building, and I wasn't eager to kick them out – I had nothing planned for tonight, and after dinner conversation is great for networking.


Of course, it was just as the warm self-satisfaction at a job well-done filled me that the doors to the Rising Sun banged open once again, letting in both the cold wind of the December night and a group of seven young men and women. These new arrivals were clearly not like the rest of the Japanese filling the hall, and neither were they here for a bowl of beans and rice. All seven had bright canary yellow scarves tied around their right biceps in the typical gangster style, though I didn't know what gang had bright yellow as their specific color. Interestingly, despite all seven having identical scarves tied around their arms, that was where the uniform look ended.


The leading three gangsters of the group were clearly aping Britannian styles, with the two men sporting brightly and badly dyed blonde hair, while the woman had opted for a bright bubblegum pink. At least her roots aren't showing across the room. All three wore garish outfits that were clearly of Britannian manufacture, and clearly meant to look like the typical outfits worn by nobles. Having actually seen what real nobles wore, thanks to my trip to the Stadtfeld Manor, I was distinctly unimpressed. The Britannians as a whole were far more comfortable showing skin than the Japanese, but the "Britannian-style" dress the woman was wearing was skimpy even by foreign standards. Hell of a thing to be wearing outside at ten o'clock at night in December. The men's suits were ill-fitting and stained, and the golden epaulets glittering on their shoulders looked as if they'd been badly sewn on by hands unaccustomed to such work. Despite this, the pistols all three carried were as Britannian as they come, and looked like the same military model that Naoto had provided us with.


By contrast, the four gangsters hanging back wore similar clothing to the bulk of the people in the hall – that is to say, typical Shinjuku clothing. Threadbare shirts and thin jackets, work pants with patched knees and belts cinched tight to waistlines shrunken with hunger. The three men and one woman of the group had no pretensions to the Britannian stylings of their apparent superiors, and all four had closely-cropped hair, likely as an anti-lice measure. Their features were worn and gaunt, their frames only slightly less wasted than the typical Shinjuku dweller, and none of them looked particularly eager to fight. Still, each of them was armed with a weapon of some kind, though unlike the three leaders none of the four had a pistol. Instead, two held knives, one rested a battered baseball bat on his shoulder, and the woman carried a humble claw hammer.


From the corner of my eye, I saw Souichiro looking to me for direction, his hand already wrapped around the heft of his baton. Off to the side of the door, the gangsters hadn't noticed him yet. I shook my head and he nodded, taking his hand off the baton and stepping back into the mass of citizenry – if he tried to attack the gangsters now, he'd be unsupported, on the other end of the densely packed hall from the rest of us, except for Ohgi and Inoue, who were stuck somewhere in the middle of the crowd. As the gangsters began to approach through the middle of the room, the three leaders swaggering as people desperately made a path, pulling children out of the way, I cursed internally. Ohgi had a gun, and Souichiro had a gun, but nobody else did as far as I knew. I hadn't expected such a brazen attack in front of so many people. That said... if a gang was going to attack the Rising Sun Benevolent Association for whatever reason... why would they send so few people? It made no sense.


Unless... This isn't an attack at all! This is a shakedown! Dammit, how could I have been so stupid?!


The Rising Sun had been throwing around a lot of resources lately. Renting a truck to import shipments of goods from the outside world into Shinjuku had been a necessity for our operation, but the costs necessary for that truck alone – the rental fees, the fuel, the bribery – must have thrown up a huge signal that we were a cash-rich organization, or at least that we had something worth stealing. And that doesn't even touch the value of whatever they think we were importing! The gangs probably assumed that the Rising Sun was a front for some sort of drug smuggling business or the like! They were wrong on that count – it was a front and a public relations organ for an armed combat organization dedicated to political terrorism – but I could forgive that error, seeing how they were absolutely correct that we had things worth stealing. Unfortunately, all of the valuables, including our cash reserves and our pilfered drugs and weapons, were all at the hideout, not here on site where we could freely hand them over to buy "protection".


There's no way they're going to believe that we don't have any money on-site. And if they refuse to believe that, things are going to get nasty.


As I'd furiously worked out how badly I'd screwed our entire operation over, the little knot of gangsters had continued to advance. It was telling how badly beaten the people of Shinjuku were, collectively; Only seven gangsters, only three with guns, were enough to intimidate the several hundred civilians present. Nobody was meeting the smirking eyes of the three leaders, and nobody looked the least bit interested in challenging them. Thankfully, that included Ohgi and Inoue as well, who I noticed were carefully mimicking the reactions of those around them, keeping their eyes downcast even as I noticed Inoue slowly drawing a knife as the last of the ragged gangsters passed her by. I've got to take control of the situation before someone makes a stupid move and starts a bloodbath.


Dropping my ladle as I engaged my strengthening and reflex enhancing suite, I swung myself over the serving table, feet easily clearing the pot of cabbage and carrots, and dropped down on the other side of the food line, right in front of the approaching gangsters. To my surprise, my enhanced strength felt... even more enhanced than usual, somehow, approaching what I had been able to manage with a mere thought in my old life, though still nowhere close to what I'd been able to do with a computation jewel. I'll worry about it later. Similarly, my reflexes felt like they'd somehow been kicked into overdrive; I'd swung myself over the table so quickly that I'd nearly stumbled when I'd landed, and it seemed like the world was somehow moving slower than it should. In the seemingly stretched seconds, I noticed Naoto was peeling off his serving gloves and trying to hurry around the serving tables too, but the throng of people and the cramped space we'd been forced to set the food line up in to make room for all the tables made it hard for him to extricate himself. Looks like it's up to me to make the first impression.


Folding my arms, I drew myself up to my full, admittedly unimpressive, height, and cocked an eyebrow at the still advancing gang. The three leaders' only reactions were sneers from the men and a condescending laugh from the woman, clearly affected after the all-too-familiar haughty laugh so beloved by wealthy Britannian ladies, and they continued to swagger towards me, the central gangster only halting a meter away while the other two moved a step or two closer, almost flanking me. I noticed the four grunts forming a vague semicircle a few steps behind the central gangster, but they still looked generally unenthusiastic, and seemed to be paying more attention to the large pots of food on the tables behind me.


The center gangster, still with a shit-eating grin on his face, started to open his mouth, which was my cue to start my pitch. "You're welcome to join us for dinner. The line starts over there – the food's free, so is the water." They were, after all, residents of Shinjuku – the poster had clearly stated that every resident of Shinjuku was welcome to join us for dinner. "No pushing, no shoving. There's plenty to go around for everybody." I spoke clearly and loudly, making sure to account for my current enhanced state so I wouldn't speak too rapidly, doing my best to emphasize in front of the murmuring audience that if anything was going to happen, it'd be these guys who'd start it.


The gangster directly ahead of me laughed, a short, ugly thing. I'd heard that laugh before, from the mouths of other men who intended on making themselves a problem. "We didn't come here for fucking dinner! Fuck off with your rice and beans, you little Brit bitch, and point us towards the cash!" He leaned in closer, until his face was barely five inches from my own. "If you're a good little girl and tell us where the money's hidden, maybe we won't take you with us when we leave. Then again..." And then the bastard actually sniffed at me, and his lips rolled back, exposing his visibly rotten teeth. "Then again, some of those rich creeps like 'em skinny... And they might pay good for a blonde."


For a moment, the rage was so intense I felt like I was choking, trying to hold it back. Only the mental discipline that years of waiting and watching for any opportunity to break my way and get me away from the war, out of the ghetto, had instilled in me gave me the strength to not murder the son of a bitch where he stood. Gotta make them throw the first punch... C'mon... C'mon... I had to get them angrier while still being eminently reasonable. That way, when I took them apart, I'd be unquestionably in the right, and nobody would think to connect me to any sort of premeditated attack, like a certain recent bombing.


"What do you think you're doing here?" I let a thin dribble of emotion into my voice, not rage but righteous indignation. Cold and controlled wouldn't play well – they liked their prey to be upset, off-balance. "We're just here trying to make life in Shinjuku slightly less awful – why are you trying to mess with us, huh?"


The pinkette laughed that horribly fake laugh again, nearly falling out of her tiny dress as a result. "You stupid little bitch, don't you get it?" She let her hand drop to the pistol, holstered in an incongruously sturdy belt. Judging by the rest of her sartorial dresses, she must have taken it from someone else. "The weak are just meat for the strong to eat – and we're the strongest people in Shinjuku!" I ignored her laugh and watched her eyes. They were full of mingled anger, fear, and exaltation. "So you'd better get out of our way, little girl, otherwise we'll eat you all up."


I snorted. It was hard enough to control my anger with these blowhards, and impossible to keep my amusement hidden as well too. "Sorry, are you saying you're strong, then? You're not even strong enough to be proud of being Japanese – and no matter how much you dye your hair and dress like them, you're never going to be Britannians. Since you're stuck in Shinjuku like the rest of us, you couldn't even be Honorary Britannians, could you?" I realized I was smiling, grinning really, teeth bared at the trio of gangsters who loomed over me. I knew they were dangerous, knew that by questioning their strength I'd just crossed their red line, but I couldn't help but laugh at them. "Clothes might make the man, but to the Britannians you're still just dirty Elevens. If a Britannian actually saw the way you dressed, they'd laugh in your faces at your silly costumes. Now get in line for your meal or get out of my way."


The gangster directly ahead of me lost his cool first. With an animalistic bellow of "Shut the fuck up, you little hafu whore!", he began to swing for me, a clearly telegraphed right-handed haymaker. Finally, took him long enough.


To my enhanced eyes, it was almost like we were sparring, and the target was a partner giving me a nice easy opportunity to set up an arm lock. Unfortunately for him, we weren't sparring, and so instead of blocking his punch I ducked low, below the arc of his fist, and took two rapid steps forward, putting me inside his guard at the cost of letting the three gangsters surround me. As the fist swung over and past my head, I retaliated, channeling every bit of anger that had accrued at their disgusting insults and ramming the base of my palm straight into his solar plexus. The close quarters didn't let me fully extend my arm, which would have maximized the impact, but the enhanced strength made that a moot issue as I could clearly feel the crunching of breaking cartilage under my hand. Ruthlessly, I poured more hoarded magic into the blow, sinking into a lunging position as I hurled all sixty-seven pounds I had to my name against him. I exulted as I felt as much as heard the air being driven from his lungs as my palm forcibly compressed his diaphragm, driving broken shards of cartilage deep into the soft tissues inside his rib cage as I did so. To guarantee that my first target was incapacitated, I whipped my trailing right leg forwards and up, rising from my lunge as I rammed my knee into his groin before taking a step back as he began to fall forwards, contracting around both his injured genitals and the crushing wound to his torso. It probably wasn't strictly necessary, but I couldn't deny that seeing the bastard blanch with pain was viscerally satisfying.


As I took my step back, a hand slammed into my neck from the right, grasping for my throat. Fortunately, my adversary had missed his chance to grab my trachea and instead of trying to resist the impact I moved with the momentum, taking a step to my left and pivoting on my left heel, ending up on my female enemy's left flank. As I turned, I took a quick look at the other four gangsters, and, absent any orders from their superiors, they were all still hanging back, keeping well clear of the fight. Very wise. The pink-haired gangster tried to keep me in front of her, starting to turn as I came up behind her, but in the face of my enhancements she might as well have been standing still for how slowly she moved. I threw a right jab straight into her left kidney, her skimpy dress doing nothing to cushion the blow, and as she started to topple forwards, crying out in pain, I kicked her behind her left knee, forcing it to fold and sending her hurtling to the ground at speed.


I was about to kick my opponent in the head now that she was down, just to make sure she wouldn't get back up while I handled my third target, when I heard the tell-tale muted crackle of an electromagnetically accelerated weapon. Despite the comparatively innocuous noise compared to the sounds of explosive propellant from my previous life, my heart immediately skipped a beat at the noise. A bullet whizzed past my ear, presumably the sound of the second shot drowned out by the blood suddenly rushing in my ears, and I realized that the last man had escalated before I could get to him. He had managed to draw his pistol before I could send him to the floor with his friends, and I was about to be shot if I didn't move now!


A moment later, I was diving forwards, hurling myself towards the last man and the Britannian pistol clutched in his shaking hand. I saw his finger twitch, and suddenly it felt like a strand of white-hot wire had been dragged across my right forearm. As if by magic, a red groove suddenly appeared, crossing the top of my right forearm in a long diagonal from the middle of the wrist to a point halfway to my elbow, and I dimly felt the heated wire brush past the side of my ribs, almost right below my armpit. The groove was only visible for a split second to my enhanced eyes before the welling blood obscured the outline, but more importantly I saw the gangster minutely shift his aim, redirecting the barrel right at my face, and I saw his finger start to tighten for a fourth time.


And then I saw a look of profound surprise and rage on the gangster's face as his gun arm was abruptly forced up just as he squeezed the trigger, sending the bullet with my name on it up into the first floor ceiling of the Rising Sun building. The gangster immediately got over his surprise and attempted to wrestle his gun and the arm holding it free, but by that time I was inside his arms, and it was too late for him. I slammed both of my fists into his belly with all the magically enhanced strength I could muster, punching once, twice, and then grabbing his head and forcing it down into my rising knee. I felt his jaw break and the teeth give way under my knee, but I grimly held onto his temples and slammed my knee up again, feeling the nose give way and smear against my patella. He was obviously unconscious before he hit the ground, and his face was a pulp of bloody flesh and splintered bone and cartilage, his mouth a ragged red hole.


I turned to the man who had just, in all probability, saved my life by grabbing my last target's gun-arm, and nearly attacked him when I saw a yellow scarf wrapped around his right arm. Seeing my sudden start towards him, the man quickly dropped the knife dangling in his left hand and put both hands over his head. I forced myself to stop, muscles quivering with adrenaline and the urge to break all too fragile limbs, and took a quick look around. The other three ragged gangsters hadn't moved from their positions in the loose semicircle around the miniature battle ground, but all of them followed their comrade's lead and dropped their weapons, hands shooting into the sky. I took a deep breath, held it for a second, and let it all out in a rush, venting the rage and blood-lust with the carbon dioxide.


The man who had saved my life looked about as wary, weary, and ragged as most Japanese in Area 11, and looked like he was about a second away from trying to run. Again, very wise. For a moment, I considered just letting him go, along with his fellow ragged footsoldiers, before I realized the folly of the thought. These were fighting aged Japanese who clearly had at least some familiarity with violence, and if what I thought I knew about gangs was anything close to accurate, they probably got next to nothing in exchange for their loyalty. Since they'd just stood back and let their probable bosses get beaten into the ground without lifting a finger to help, that minimal payment clearly hadn't been enough. The gangs had fallen into a classic human resources management trap, and had mistaken the minimum income as adequate to purchase 100% of their employee's effort, rather than just being adequate to purchase their attendance. Besides, I doubted the gang's leadership showed much respect or care for their lowest ranked followers. Also, since they left with those three idiots, I doubt whoever's running their group will be happy if they show back up without them.


Overall, the four ragged, terrified gangsters were ready for an alternative job offer.


Moving slowly, I raised my right arm and offered my hand towards the gangster who had broken ranks to save my life. To my sudden annoyance, I realized I'd offered my injured limb to him, and the blood from the groove left by the grazing bullet had already begun to dribble down my hand. Unfortunately, rapidly pulling back the extended hand would have signaled the wrong message entirely, and so I ignored the dripping redness as I met the man's eyes.


"You must be hungry – please, stay for a meal in the warmth, don't just go back out into the cold. The food's not great, but it tastes far better shared than eaten alone." Without breaking eye contact, I extended my other hand towards the other three gangsters, barely visible in my peripheral vision. "All are welcome under the light of the Rising Sun, and this meal is for all of Shinjuku. That includes you."


Hesitantly, skittishly, moving slowly and deliberately, the first gangster lowered his arms, raised his left hand to the yellow scarf on his right bicep, and untied the knot, letting the scarf fall to the ground. Then, he stepped over the scarf, and took my outstretched hand, and gave it a soft, overly gentle shake. Tch! Treating me like a child when he just saw me beat down three adults! I'm not a damned doll! And then he froze, still holding my hand and clearly not sure what to do next.


"The line starts over there." We both jumped as a masculine tenor suddenly made itself known over my shoulder. Pulling my hand free, I started to turn towards the voice, but nearly staggered; as I'd been making my recruitment pitch, I'd taken my mind off my enhancement suite, and it had begun to wind down, leaving me suddenly aware of the hot stinging pain coming from my arm and my side. I also realized I was feeling woozy, as if the world was starting to spin under my feet. Before I could fall down and make a fool of myself, strong hands braced my shoulders. The gangster, or perhaps former gangster now, nodded frantically and scuttled off towards the food line, closely followed by his three comrades.


Looking up, I saw Naoto glaring down at me. He looked extremely worried, very angry, and profoundly relieved, a combination I'd only seen once before, when Kallen had returned fully intact after the mission to the train station. I couldn't blame him in the slightest; I was angry too, that our simple attempt to build community among the people of Shinjuku had been targeted by a gang, and I was very worried about the shots that had flown past me a minute ago – I hoped nobody else had been hurt. And I was extremely, horribly relieved that I was still alive. I thought... I thought I was about to die. I almost died. I... I should be dead... Just standing suddenly felt like far too much to ask, and I sagged back into Naoto's hands, my head swimming more than ever. I heard a rising clamor, and somewhere nearby Ohgi was yelling that "It's fine, it's fine! She'll be okay!"


A few minutes later, I was seated on a folding chair at a table, minus my jacket and overshirt, a bowl of beans and rice in front of me and bandages wrapped around my arm and my chest. Ohgi stood next to me, glowering at the three men and one woman staring straight down at the food in front of them, not making eye contact as they wolfed down their helpings. Behind me, I heard Inoue chatting on a burner phone, trying to get in contact with a former paramedic who ran a small unlicensed clinic. Apparently, Inoue thought I'd need stitches, and considering how blood was already starting to ooze through my bandages, she was probably correct about that. Nagata and Naoto were busy tying up the three Britannian wannabes, and were being none-too-gentle about the process. Soon, all three vanished into the back room of the Rising Sun, presumably to be shoved into a supply closet or something until we figured out what to do with them. Some of the Shinjuku residents had left as soon as the fight had ended, displaying an admirable degree of sense, but most had remained, and were talking in a low mutter that filled the hall with a dull roar. Annoyingly, most of them kept looking at me, which wouldn't have been such an issue if I was able to stand on my own two feet and hadn't nearly gotten myself killed like an overconfident idiot.


"So," I began, desperate for distraction from the hundreds of eyes I felt. "How'd you end up in a gang?" It was admittedly not my finest conversational maneuver, but I was perfectly content with blaming my bluntness on the blood loss and the fact I'd been shot less than twenty minutes earlier. Admittedly, it was a grazing wound, but it had been the first time I'd been shot, at least in this body. "Was it for protection? For food and supplies? Did you have habits that needed to be satisfied?" I paused, and realized my barrage of questions had sounded needlessly interrogative. "Look," I tried, aiming for a gentler tone. "If we're going to be working together, I need to know you. You do want to work with me, right?"


Apparently, honey still catches more flies than vinegar. I soon learned that three of my new recruits had joined the gang for food and protection – although one had apparently briefly been a part of the Kokuryu-kai before that organization's untimely dissolution. Hojo, as the ex-gangster who still had my blood on his hand named himself, confessed to an opiate habit; he claimed that he'd sustained a badly broken leg when the floor of the poorly maintained building he'd been squatting at the time gave out. He even pulled up the leg of his much-mended and badly stained trousers, revealing a nasty twisting scar that looped around a visibly malformed shin. Apparently, he'd had to splint it himself, and had relied on mooching off his family for months as it had slowly healed. Somewhere along the way, someone had given him a bottle of Oxy, either out of an attempt to ease his pain or just to stop the moaning, but either way that help had proven misguided, and he'd been ridden by that monkey for the last three years. Being a member of a gang had given him the "membership price" when it came to feeding his habit, and it had given him the opportunity to collect enough valuables from his victims to pay that price.


I wasn't sure what the best course of action for dealing with that particular wrinkle would be, so I simply nodded and thanked him for his forthrightness. I owed him one, and simply recruiting him into an organization that prided itself on supporting its members wouldn't be enough to settle the score. We had at least some pain pills we'd looted from the station market, but simply enabling the addiction would just kick the can down the road – plus, those pills were valuable bartering chips, not to mention that when they ran out Hojo's loyalty would suddenly become suspect.


After a while, the introductions and anecdotes tapered off, and I decided it was time to turn the conversation towards business. "You've got two choices – three, maybe. You can enjoy your meal, and leave when you're done, and do your best to get out of Shinjuku as fast as possible – or, you can stay here, help us clean up, and help us with our... other activities." I smiled at the four, who'd finally grown comfortable enough to actually meet my eyes. Ohgi grumbled beside me as he wound a fresh bandage around my arm, but I ignored him – if he had objections, he could ask for a moment of my time or simply express them in an understandable manner. "Of course, you could try going back to your old gang, but it doesn't sound like any of you were particularly happy there, and as soon as word of tonight's events gets out, I can't guarantee you'll be welcomed back with open arms." Nobody looked surprised at that, thankfully. Dealing with idiots was always tiresome, especially when I was already a bit tired out.


"If you'll be joining us, I expect you to follow orders, and to complete our training program. Naoto – the redhead over by the food – is our leader, and Ohgi here is our second in command, so you'd better listen to them, got it?" Four nodding heads showed me that they did understand, although the woman and one of the men – not Hojo – looked startled at the announcement of Ohgi's rank. Strangely enough, they both suddenly looked quite scared, and I could only assume that they'd suffered under the hands of their previous employer's leadership. No matter – I'm sure they'll warm up to him soon enough... I winced, remembering my own flawed first impression of the man. Or not. So long as they listen, it doesn't matter. "I can't guarantee that the training will be easy, but I can promise you plenty to eat, and that we don't beat our subordinates for being less than perfect here."


Noticing the none-too-subtle gestures Ohgi and Inoue had started making, I made my goodbyes and directed the four to either be out of Shinjuku by the time the rising sun touched the sky tomorrow, or to go and talk with Naoto. All four made a beeline towards the rear of the building, to my pleasure, and I followed Ohgi into a side-room, Inoue taking up a position outside the door to guarantee us a bit of privacy.


"Okay, we've got a price negotiated to get your arm and your side stitched up. Since we're providing our own antiseptic and anesthesia, it's pretty generous." Ohgi started talking almost as soon as the door closed, ushering me into the sole chair in the room before slouching against the desk. "We'll get moving in a second, but before we go – are you sure about recruiting those guys? Nobody in the cell knows any of them, and one of them freely admitted to being a junkie."


"We can't keep recruiting friends and family alone, Ohgi." I squirmed a bit in my seat, guiltily but not nervously. I had no doubts that Ohgi and Naoto would back my decision to the hilt, but I had somewhat superseded my authority by offering the four former gangsters a place in our organization without running the idea by either of them. "If we do that, it'll make things much worse once the fight with the Britannians begins in earnest, and we start losing people. Plus, there's a finite number of people who people already in our group can personally vouch for – we're going to need more hands than that, for both the Rising Sun and for the Cell." This was all reasonable, but I certainly understood why Ohgi was questioning my logic here. "Besides, they're going to be in training for a while, so I'll have plenty of time to get to know them and to test their reliability. If one or all of them don't make it..." I shrugged. "Not like there's any shortage of alleys in Shinjuku. Maybe I'll even take them to the dumpsters myself and cheat the Haulers."


Ohgi nodded at that, a bleak smile crossing his face for a moment, before the determined frown he'd worn during our conversation a few days ago came forward instead. I'd grown familiar with the large variety of frowns Ohgi had, ranging from the thoughtful to the mildly concerned to the look of grim resolve he now bore. There was, it seemed, no arguing with that particular frown. "Fine – but you're not going to be training them." Before I could acknowledge this, he continued on, his words as implacable in their advance as the slow strangulation of the Albish Starvation Blockade. "You have just been injured, and you will rest adequately to ensure a full and complete recovery if I have to tie you to a cot myself. There is plenty of work to be done helping Inoue, Kallen, and Naoto without a bit of heavy lifting, and that is what you'll be doing at least until the stitches come out. I know you're eager to train your new recruits, but someone else can handle that. Don't fight me on this."


"I'm not going to." I took advantage of the punctuating pause to finally slip a word in edgewise. The way his firm expression cracked with fissures of surprise and suspicion was amusing, but I pressed on instead of savoring the expression. "I'm not an idiot, Ohgi – of course I'm going to take a break from physical activity while I'm recovering." That was the easy, sensible part. Time for the still-sensible yet oddly difficult to actually say part. "And... You made your point earlier. We're a group, an organization, and I can't do everything myself. So, I trust you and Naoto to know what to do. I recommend that you let Tamaki handle the day to day training for the men – he knows his guns, and he's clearly very interested in workout routines; more to the point, he's knowledgeable and loves proving it. If you put him in charge of sharing his skills, that will give him an opportunity to prove himself as he so desperately wants in a constructive way." I smirked at Ohgi. He still looked slightly gobsmacked, but he'd re-engaged his brain enough to nod along. Still got it! "While Naoto and Tamaki handle those greenhorns, I want you to help Inoue keep Rising Sun moving – I'll be borrowing Nagata for a bit, at least for long enough to meet with Mister Asahara. After all, I probably won't need to fight anybody to open negotiations with Kyoto House."


---------


After several long hours, to Kozuki Naoto's relief, the communal dinner Tanya had dropped in everybody's laps the day before finally came to an end. Tanya herself had left over an hour ago, hustled out the door by Ohgi, Nagata, and Nagata's wife Ami, who were intent on getting her to the nearest thing approaching an urgent care facility Shinjuku could offer, leaving the clean up to the remaining members of the Rising Sun, as well as a handful of volunteers who'd helped Tamaki and Chihiro wrestle the tables and chairs back into the storage room before departing. The clean-up was almost done now, the trash put in a sealed can in the alley to avoid attracting rats, and all the pots had been thoroughly scrubbed. Which meant there was only one last bit of filth to deal with before Naoto could call it a job done.


Naoto stood with the rest of the members of the Rising Sun in attendance in a wide semicircle facing the four recruits. To his left stood Tamaki and Souichiro, while Inoue and Chihiro flanked him on the right. The recruits stood in a line facing them, the man who'd introduced himself as Hojo in the center. Time to lay down the law.


"Hajime Tanya has invited you to join us, and has asked for permission to train you up enough that you'll be mildly helpful. Due to her injuries, I had to deny her second request, but she begged for us to offer you the opportunity to serve the cause despite her injury. Be thankful to her – it's by her grace alone that you're here." Naoto remembered the speeches his father had given to crowds of retainers, vassals, and allies at parties, and tried to adopt the confident cadence. It came back to him easily, and it felt natural and right.


"Tanya's grace only goes so far, though. You will be trained, and you will work hard. You will be broken down and rebuilt into something better and stronger. You will hate it, you might hate us, but you will learn to love the cause, and you will learn to love yourselves for what you can do for the cause. Tamaki," Naoto gestured, and Tamaki stepped forward, "will be your principal trainer and your immediate superior. You will do as he tells you – he's an experienced fighter for the cause, and has done much to help us. That said, he will also be your advocate. If you think anything we do is wrong, or dangerous to you or to a civilian, let him know, and he'll tell me or Ohgi. If you think I am being unfair to you, explain your complaint to Tamaki, and he will make your case to me." Naoto gestured again, and Tamaki stepped over and stood beside the line of recruits. "He will also be taking care of your quarters and provisions tonight, so stick close to him.


"And now, before we finish our business up for the night," Naoto dropped his father's cadence, and let a genuine smile cross his face as he looked at his new prospective brothers and sister in arms, "Let me welcome you to the Rising Sun. It's great to have you here, and I hope to share a drink with all of you once your training's over. Work hard, so you can join us in building a better world for all Japanese."


Naoto let the sense of blossoming camaraderie remain for a moment longer, before moving on. "Before we go, though, there's one last thing we need to handle tonight." At a nod, Tamaki, Souichiro, and Chihiro disappeared into a back room, while Inoue stepped into her side office for a moment, returning with three folding chairs and a handful of zip ties. Soon, the three Rising Sun members returned from the storage room, each with a moaning burden. Tamaki and Souichiro each had a man dressed in a cheap imitation of a Britannian noble's suit slung over their shoulder, while Chihiro dragged a pink-haired woman out into the hall. All three were unceremoniously forced onto the chairs lined up against a wall and zip-tied to the tube frames. To Naoto's mild annoyance, the man with the shattered jaw was still unconscious, although a quick check of his pulse confirmed he was still alive. The other two were very much aware, though, and two pairs of frightened eyes over gagged mouths tracked him around the room.


Turning to the four new recruits, the former comrades of the bound men and woman, Naoto offered them a chance to save their lives, if the four so wished. "Do any of you know of any time that any of these three showed any concern for the average Japanese man or woman, or did any of them ever help the people around them?" None of the four spoke, shifting uneasily from one foot to another, before the lone female in their ranks quickly shook her head side to side, almost like she was trying to shake away an annoying fly. Still a condemnation, though. None of them are willing to vouch for these guys. "Did any of these three ever display implacable hatred for the Britannians, or a desire to fight the Britannians?" Hojo snorted, then coughed, before shaking his head in a firm negation.


"So be it."


In the last month, since Naoto had first given Tanya the authorization to start drawing up plans for the cell and to choose her own assignments, essentially promoting her to a de facto officer rank, he had not failed to notice how the girl's influence and authority had blossomed. Naoto thought of himself as a fairly decent leader, not great, but not a slouch either. He was the son of a minor lord, and had done his best to carve his own path in the world at the expense of the people who had done so much to hurt his mother, his sister, and his people. Naoto knew he hadn't achieved much, but he'd done what he could to make the world a better place the only way he had known how – through beating down the people who had deserved it, and protecting the people who had been beaten down by the world already. And then Tanya had come, and had essentially co-opted his merry band of rebels out from under his feet. For all that she still proclaimed him their leader, Naoto was fairly certain how the chips would fall, if push ever came to shove.


And so, in light of the undeniable triumph that had been the station mission, Naoto had briefly considered stepping down and conceding leadership of the group to Tanya. He had, in fact, gone as far as sounding out Ohgi about the idea. Ohgi had greatly surprised Naoto by telling him that was a stupid idea. Tanya, Ohgi had pointed out, was a good leader and would likely improve with the passage of time, but she was also a child. Moreover, she was a child in desperate need of support; handing her the full burden of leadership, of being the one ultimately responsible for everything that happened, every civilian caught in the crossfire, every empty bed and filled grave, would have been cowardly, a temper tantrum by a man so afraid of being surpassed by a child that he sought to punish her for her success. Naoto knew he was a flawed man, but he'd be damned if he dropped that kind of responsibility onto a child.


And so, Naoto had instead thought about how to improve himself and his group to reflect the reality of the situation. Finally, after the events of the night, Naoto finally felt like he understood how the group should be run. The triumvirate that already existed would continue to exist, but duties would be more directly parceled up. Ohgi had demonstrated the depths of his empathy and his connections to their comrades, and had proven more than capable of identifying and tackling problems – and so he would be in charge of keeping the group running harmoniously. Tanya was a propagandist's dream, an adorable child with a sad edge coming from a legitimately horrifying personal history, and she had proven her instinctual grasp of theatrics tonight by extending her bloody hand to the gangsters, and pulling them to her side – coupled with her obvious genius and her incredibly ruthless plans and stunning combat skills, she would both direct strategy and be the face of the movement, as well as continuing to be the Organization's trump card. Naoto, meanwhile, would shoulder the nasty parts of leadership – someone had to make sure problematic elements didn't trouble the leader, someone had to pull the trigger on a potential traitor where the evidence wasn't clear cut, and someone would have to ensure that the smiling face and open hand were backed with a mailed fist and a knife in the back.


After all, it might be evil but necessary to ask a child to fight a war... But asking a child to murder in cold blood is just too much. Too much. And so...


Naoto's mouth twitched in a brief, humorless smile. I suppose blood truly will out, in the end. After all, murdering helpless Numbers was a long held Britannian tradition, dating back to the Conquest of the Homeland itself. He supposed it was time he embraced both sides of his heritage, at least as it was useful to the service of the cause.


Nathan Stadtfelt pulled his pistol, turned from the four recruits, raised his weapon, aimed, and fired. He moved his hand in arc, and fired again, and then once more. Three dead Japanese slumped against a wall, holed heads slumped low, cranial matter and blood fanned out behind them over peeling white paint. He did not say anything, did not make any pithy statement or joke at the expense of the dead. This was business, and besides, dead traitors to Japan didn't deserve any epigraph.


Kozuki Naoto holstered his pistol, and exhaled the breath he'd been holding. He wanted to feel bad about this, about having taken three human lives, but if they wanted to dress like Britannians and act like Britannians, then they could die like Britannians. He turned back to his comrades, and was unsurprised by what he saw. Tamaki looked almost bored, Souichiro looked saddened but stern, Inoue looked like she was already thinking about some other task, and Chihiro practically glowed with an ugly self-righteous satisfaction and perverse delight. All present and accounted for then. The four new recruits were, as a group, fairly stoic. One of the men seemed like he was breathing a bit fast, but the other three seemed unaffected. Doubt these were the first corpses they've seen.


"Tamaki, get the blood cleaned up, then get the new guys squared away in Stash Room Three. Grab the sleeping bags Tanya bought before you go. Souichiro and Inoue, help them with the clean up, and then you're free for the night." Naoto turned to Chihiro, and nodded at her. "Chihiro, help me get the bodies out back."


Gratifyingly soon, Naoto found himself with Chihiro, three bodies, a steel can full of gasoline, and a variety of saws and knives. As the dinner had wound down, Naoto had considered how he'd guarantee that the fate of the gangsters who had messed with the Rising Sun would remain a mystery long enough for him to make the gang who had sent them a moot factor. Ultimately, he had decided to take the typical Shinjuku approach of "leave them in an alley somewhere" up to the next level, on the off-chance that someone bothered to look for them. It was a simple plan that required only the tools Naoto already had access to, and didn't require the waste of the gratuitous amounts of fuel that true cremation required. He had specifically earmarked Chihiro for this task, certain that she'd have the fewest qualms about helping him out with his body disposal idea.


Implementing the idea was grisly work, conducted under the harsh light of an electric lantern in the midnight cold of the alleyway behind the Rising Sun, and Naoto found it surprisingly exhausting. The noble bastard was by no means a stranger to manual labor, picking up work whenever he could to help support his mother and sister, before his father had returned for the pair, and had continued to work odd jobs once he'd moved into the apartment in Shinjuku with Ohgi. Yet, the task of turning the bodies of the men and the woman he had killed into anonymous, unrecognizable meat... wore at him, somehow. He didn't feel physically tired, as he continued his necessary, self-appointed task, but instead felt as if his internal self had succumbed to numb exhaustion as the hours plodded on.


Naoto looked over at Chihiro, who had displayed no sign of flagging enthusiasm, even as she'd slowed down as they continued to work late into the night. Her initial joy when he'd explained his intentions for the cadavers had been revolting, and the zeal with which she had worked had been equally appalling. As the work had dragged on and the novelty had slowly worn off, her enthusiasm had gradually waned and eventually she had looked just as tired and hollow-eyed as Naoto had felt – at least, as much as he could tell such things by the dimming lantern light, as the batteries expended the last of their charge.


An hour later, after the last of the work had been accomplished and the majority of the result had been distributed over several acres of Shinjuku, Naoto stood alone in the alley, carefully pouring gasoline over the more recognizable pieces of evidence. He felt empty, his physical exhaustion combining with spiritual weariness. Here, alone, away from the eyes of anyone else, he let himself process the memory of murdering three helpless victims, one already half dead. He vomited, remembering the look in the woman's eyes specifically as the gun had tracked her way, the last of the three to go. Compared to that, the memories of the rest of the night were merely disgusting, not soul-wrenching. After all, who cared how he disrespected the corpse, when he'd already offered the greatest disrespect imaginable by cutting short the life that had animated it, ending something irreplaceable, something that would never come back again unless the chain of Samsara was real and suffering truly was endless, this side of the Pure Land.


And yet, Naoto couldn't say that he regretted what he had done last night, as it was well into the early hours of the morning. This is my job, my task. I make problems go away. All for the cause. All for Japan. He thought about how close Tanya had come to death yesterday, and felt strong in his resolve. Those gangsters had been people, but they had also been enemies to those who he held close, and to the nation that he loved. When he had been a young man, first brought back into the Stadtfeld fold after his father's return to Japan, Naoto had spent a great deal of time in the library, reading the biographies of the great men who had changed the world. One of those men had long ago issued a proclamation, the ultimatum of which Naoto murmured to himself as he carefully closed the can of gasoline, set it aside, and struck a match.


What will happen to the enemies of the Rising Sun? "...They will suffer the same fate as a stone dropped into deep water, they will simply disappear."


Kozuki Naoto dropped the match, and watched as the last remains of those who would stand against the light of the Rising Sun disappeared into flame.

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 14: A Lingering Ache


(A big thank you to Siatru, and to Daemon, BlueBezerk, and Grig9700 on the Tanya Writers Discord for beta reading this chapter.)


Two weeks of forced inactivity left me considerably more agitated than I had been expecting. The old medic who'd patched me up in his basement 'clinic' after my confrontation with the gangsters at the Rising Sun's building had said I was welcome to come back in three weeks time to pay him to take the stitches out, provided I kept the wound clean and babied my arm and my side until then. At the time, I had been eager for the opportunities presented by almost a month of medically required downtime. Now, I could only blame the blood loss for my foolish thoughts at the time – the silver lining of sustaining a grazing bullet wound had proven remarkably transient.


The initial joy at escaping death and shock at having avoided major injury, customary after many near death experiences, faded before the medic had even finished stitching up my arm. After so many brushes with death in both this life and the last, the emotional reaction to survival felt somewhat muted. The secondary joy at having a cast-iron reason to excuse myself from active operations in favor of more managerial tasks, which would not only benefit the Kozuki Organization and Rising Sun, but would also further showcase my talents as a non-combat asset, took longer to fade. Indeed, it hadn't faded, in that I was still happy for the time and opportunities presented by my injury, but that the joy at the opening on my schedule had been eclipsed by two sources of unexpected frustration: My need for physical activity, and Ohgi's inspired impression of a mother hen.


Years of constant hard work on the streets of Shinjuku, and months of training to try and prepare my scrawny body for the fighting sure to come, had accustomed me to near constant physical activity. Admittedly, it had also accustomed me to hanging on the ragged edge of starved exhaustion as well, but the point stood. Between the increased caloric intake of my shared meals with Ohgi, plus the snacks that everybody just seemed to happen to have on hand whenever they visited me in the apartment, and the enforced rest so I could recuperate, I felt energized to the point of bursting. My hands twitched, and I found myself taking every excuse that came my way to stand up and pace around the studio's single room. I could feel Ohgi's smirk as I paced, and my cheeks burnt as I imagined the easy comparisons he was making between my current behavior and that of a lazy student trying to evade her homework, but at least he was kind enough to not twist the knife by vocalizing such comparisons. Instead, he confined himself to constantly asking if I was hungry, if my wounds were itching, or if I needed anything.


The overly-solicitous behavior was a bit much, but in line with what I had come to expect from the man. Irritating as it was, I found I couldn't quite get angry with Ohgi about his concern. It was... touching, I suppose, that he was so obviously worried about me. That said, I'd been injured far worse in my previous life multiple times, most notably in the skies over Norden, and while I lacked the magical advantages that had made it so easy to block out pain before, a grazing wound was nothing compared to the injuries sustained in that little dust-up. I couldn't exactly convey that to him, however, not without either telling him about my past life or lying about some fictitious injury sustained before I'd met him. In the end I resolved to simply enjoy the novel experience of being fussed over. After all, trust was difficult to build and easy to lose, and Ohgi had quite clearly decided to trust in me – it would have been a remarkably unfair trade if I'd decided to repay that trust with lies, especially over something so petty.


Plus, I lacked any scars to back up a story of a past injury.


Fortunately, the minor inconveniences of my injuries aside, the last two weeks had brought nothing but good news for the Rising Sun, and for the Kozuki Organization. Apparently, the way I had handled the gangster incursion had overly impressed the Shinjuku citizens attending the dinner. I suppose I could understand; I had managed to deal with the gangsters relatively easily, and displays of strength, no matter how minor, always drew the desperate like moths to the flame. To my pleasant surprise, my attempt to salvage and preserve perfectly usable human resources from the situation appeared to have been equally if not more impressive – although, it had been at least partially misunderstood.


The Rising Sun Benevolent Association was suddenly awash with volunteers, old and young, all eager to help the Shinjuku community while happily spouting off about my mercy and compassion for all suffering Japanese. It was somewhat alarming how quickly my hasty words, "All are welcome under the light of the Rising Sun", had taken on something of a life of their own. According to gossip passed on by Naoto and Ohgi, red circles with the kanji for "light" superimposed had begun to appear on walls across Shinjuku the night after the community dinner.


While I was not a fan of graffiti personally, only a fool ignored it in Shinjuku. From gang tags splashed across walls to calls to murder Britannians to more earthy expressions, graffiti was the anonymous expression of sentiment in the meager public spaces. In a very real way, graffiti truly was the "heartbeat of the city", and provided an insight into the minds of the inhabitants of the ghetto. If Naoto and Ohgi were correct about how widespread and spontaneous the signs of support were, the spectacle must have been far more impressive than I had imagined.


Beyond rising suns sprayed on concrete and the sudden willingness of Shinjuku citizens to help each other, the Rising Sun had also received a slightly more official vote of confidence in the form of recognition from what passed for local government.


The functional anarchy of Shinjuku was a product of grassroots organizations that had sprung up in the post-Conquest chaos to try and provide a basic level of social organization and services. Some of those organizations were, admittedly, gangs trying to exert their dominance over the territory they controlled and clamping down on any crime not committed by themselves, but the majority were ad hoc 'Public Safety Committees'. These groups of self-organized citizens generally held sway over a block, a street, or a tenement, and organized things such as child care and rubble and trash clearing in their area. These committees had been my primary employers during my years of working for my dinner, and ranged from petty tyrannies to remarkably well-organized attempts at self-governance.


Now, in the wake of the events at the Rising Sun building two weeks ago, several of the Safety Committees had sent representatives to meet with Ohgi and myself, asking for alliances to share resources and to provide mutual aid. Typically, these appeals were dressed up in language about helping the collective good of Shinjuku and the like, and in some cases the representatives actually seemed sincere about seeking the best for their constituents, but I could easily read between the lines of their requests for alliance.


The Committees had seen the rising threat of the spiraling gang war, and had recognized the need to reassert order on the ghetto. When I had publicly defied the attempt by a gang to usurp control over the Rising Sun's resources, I had unintentionally thrown down a public gauntlet, something that the Committees had been waiting for someone to do. Now they were rallying behind the Rising Sun as silent partners – if the gangs decided to respond in force, the Committees would undoubtedly hastily disassociate from our efforts, but if we could take the initiative, they would provide us with resources and manpower.


Fortunately for the forces of order in Shinjuku, Naoto had already begun to move against the gangs before the first Committee had sent a representative to ask for a meeting with me. Correctly deducing that no gang would allow such a public slap in the face to go unanswered, Naoto had masterfully utilized newly acquired human resources and milked the new recruits for every detail he could about the operations of their former gang. Apparently, it had been a fairly small operation, centered around a core of former Kokuryu-kai members and an under-boss from the now-defunct gang, and only in control of a small amount of territory close to the Rising Sun building. This splinter gang operated a minor amphetamine production and distribution operation, as well as a pair of decidedly low-class brothels, and Hojo in particular had been happy to give Naoto the locations of every gang asset he'd known about.


As a result of this wealth of intelligence, Naoto's opening salvo had been remarkably effective. Leaving Tamaki in charge of handling the recruits' training, Naoto had taken Chihiro and Souichiro and had begun a decapitating assassination campaign. With Hojo's information about the locations of all of the gang's safe houses and operational facilities in hand, hunting down the gang's leadership had been relatively easy. Naoto took the opportunity to finally put those Britannian assault rifles I'd acquired during my truck hijacking months ago to use, and had successfully ambushed the gang's boss and three of his inner circle as they'd left the gang's hidden meth lab the afternoon following the incident at the Rising Sun. The resulting hail of gunfire had wiped out all four of the targets present, plus their bodyguards, and Naoto had personally confirmed their deaths by shooting each corpse in the head afterwards.


After that, Naoto had led Souichiro and Chihiro to the gang's brothels and freed the captive women inside, and had let Chihiro and the newly freed slaves handle whichever guards had survived the initial assaults. Apparently, the resulting reprisal of the knife- and hammer-wielding women had been extremely passionate, and Naoto had still been splattered with blood when he'd returned to the apartment to update Ohgi and I on his progress. While the execution of captives was deplorable, as was the waste of human resources, I could only applaud Naoto's decision to hand vengeance over to those most brutally oppressed by the gang. It had been an excellent decision, from the point of view of realpolitick. Unless Naoto had planned to defend his prisoners' lives by force, after what Chihiro at the very least had seen inside the squalid rooms of the brothel, those men were already dead. By deliberately handing them over to Chihiro and the formerly enslaved women, he had successfully changed the narrative from 'uncontrollable soldiers mutiny against their officer to lynch prisoners' to 'outraged officer gives victims a chance for justice against their rapists', making himself appear to be the gracious and caring leader the Japanese hungered for.


Besides, if I'd been there myself, I'd have made sure they'd died slowly.


As a result of Naoto's aggressive campaign, the gang that had first menaced the Rising Sun was dispersed, their assets and territory now ours by the right of conquest, and our pool of recruits and supplies expanded. I didn't delude myself into thinking that this early success indicated that rolling over the rest of the gangs that riddled Shinjuku would be equally easy. We'd had the advantage of insider intelligence on our side, and thanks to Naoto's efforts to ensure the first trio of gangsters had completely disappeared, the element of surprise as well. Either would have been a luxury, but both had practically paved the road to victory for Naoto. Still, it had been an early and obvious success, and probably more than my minor victory in the Rising Sun building proved our strength to the Committees. When they came to build alliances with us, they did so both because of our sudden public appeal and because of the row of bloodied yellow scarfs Naoto had nailed to the wall of one of the former brothels. While we had not, of course, publicly claimed responsibility for the sudden disintegration of the gang, since no simple charity and community building organization would involve itself in such violence, the affiliation of the masked gunmen who had assassinated the gang's leader was obvious to everybody in our corner of Shinjuku.


Naoto hadn't stopped to rest on his laurels after the initial wave of success. Gangsters affiliated with multiple other gangs had vanished at night while out singly or in pairs, and no identifiable corpses had been found, though the alleys of Shinjuku contained slightly more grisly bundles than normal. Several of the more obvious gang hideouts in areas of Shinjuku further away from the Rising Sun had been molotov'ed, and in the one operation Tamaki had been allowed to participate in, one of the rocket-propelled grenades Naoto had somehow gotten his hands on had been fired through the door of a garage-turned-meth lab. The resulting fireball had immolated the entire structure and everybody inside, but fortunately had represented such an escalation in violence that nobody had blamed us for it, and instead the gangs had doubled down on their internecine conflict.


Overall, I couldn't have been more proud of Naoto. When I had first realized how green the Kozuki Organization was, I had been afraid that I'd hooked my wagon to a doomed star, and that Naoto's lack of real-world leadership experience would doom us all. Fortunately, when push had come to shove, he'd rapidly proven to have the intelligence, insight, and ruthless streak necessary to lead.


Ohgi had really stepped up his leadership ability too, in the recent weeks. His efforts to reach out to every member of the Organization after the station mission had begun to crystallize his role as the human resources chief in the organization, and he'd continued to operate splendidly in that role as more recruits had filtered in. After Naoto had freed the captives of the gang brothels, several of the newly freed women had asked to join the Organization for one reason or another, and of course thanks to the "all are welcome under the light of the Rising Sun" motto, they'd been welcomed with open arms. That had almost led to an unfortunate incident when they'd been introduced to our other new recruits, but happily none of the four had been directly involved in the brothel operations, and so Ohgi had managed to talk everybody down. Once the knives had been put away and the guns holstered, Ohgi had managed to work out an understanding between the former gangsters, and the former victims. One of the former slaves had been unable to continence working alongside the former gangsters, and so Ohgi had shifted her to the Rising Sun side of the operation, tasking her with helping Inoue keep things running.


I couldn't have handled that whole situation any better myself, and I'd told Ohgi so after he'd returned. He'd looked pleasantly surprised by that, which was gratifying – it was always important to reinforce success with encouragement, and the fact that he looked so pleased emphasized that he considered my judgment important. Quite a difference from so many superiors I'd had in my first two lives.


It had been mildly discouraging when I realized that I was perhaps not as necessary to the Kozuki Organization as I had been before the attack on the weapon's market in the subway station. Naoto was doing a splendid job directing combat operations, and Ohgi was managing complex and touchy personnel issues with aplomb. It felt good to see them start to grow into their potential – after all, the goal of any good human resources manager was always to develop and nurture talent – but I had begun to worry that my value to the group was diminishing. I'd tried to assist Tamaki with the training program, reasoning that a larger pool of recruits necessitated more instructors to maximize the efficacy of the training, but I'd been roundly rebuffed by both Tamaki and Ohgi and all but ordered by Naoto to continue resting. So, I'd instead turned to Inoue, and helped her efforts to both coordinate the many humanitarian projects of the Rising Sun and to determine targets for Naoto to strike. It wasn't as direct of a way of demonstrating my continuing worth as joining Naoto on the nighttime streets in a balaclava, but sifting through intelligence and planning out attack strategies was unarguably a greater service to the cause than just being another soldier. Safer, too.


Just a pity that sitting down and calmly planning out the next move didn't do anything to reduce my restlessness.


A week after the dinner at the Rising Sun, Nagata and Ohgi successfully negotiated an introduction to the Six Houses of Kyoto from Mister Asahara. The shrewd old bastard had negotiated a generous "administrative fee" for his services as a middleman, but had allegedly given a "virtuous customer" discount to us in light of the events at the Rising Sun, which he had of course heard about from someone or another. He'd also, apparently, been very impressed with the use we'd put his products to in the station mission, and had extended both his compliments and a discount on the purchase of future explosive devices, contingent on the continued use of his work for "virtuous purposes". I had my doubts about his sincerity, since to my eyes Mister Asahara appeared to be a consummate survivor and a professional at being on the winning side, but if he was willing to give us a discount on future bomb purchases that in itself was another vote of confidence. If the wily old engineer thought we were on the right path, I'd hoped that he would pass that impression on to the Six Houses.


Finally, after a week of anxiously waiting on word from the enigmatic cabal of plutocrats, a meeting had been scheduled with a representative from Kyoto. The representative had opted to meet with us well outside of our territory in Shinjuku, and had given an address of a restaurant in one of the Honorary Britannian districts as the meeting location. I couldn't fault the abundance of caution displayed by the group – in their line of business, discretion was undoubtedly the better part of valour – and so soon Ohgi and I found ourselves in one of the seedier parts of the Concession, not too far from Shinjuku itself. I wonder if the zoning is purely to remind the Honorary Britannians of their place, or if it's just that the proximity to the ghetto brings down property values enough to be affordable to Honorary Britannians?


Ohgi was dressed as a servant, in a moderately nice suit with his usual pompadour combed flat, while I wore a nice blouse and jacket combination I'd allowed Kallen to bully me into letting her buy for me once she'd gotten wind of this meeting. Together, we hopefully looked like a precocious middle-class Britannian girl having a bit of an adventure by visiting the Honorary Britannian district, with a long-suffering Honorary Britannian servant forced into acting as my minder. Unfortunately, Ohgi spoke almost no Britannian, which would have made the whole charade untenable, but thanks to the many trips to the Tokyo Settlement I'd taken with Kallen over the last month, my Britannian had significantly improved. While traces of my Germanian accent still lingered, they weren't enough to immediately make me sound like a foreigner. In addition, my insistence that Kallen only speak to me in Britannian during our trips through the Settlement had considerably expanded my vocabulary, not only in terms of the proper expressions but also in the all-important field of slang. If anybody tried to talk to Ohgi, I could just play the part of the pain in the ass Britannian kid and force my way into the conversation.


The restaurant was an example of "Britannian style dining", according to the sign on the door, and to my eyes appeared like a cross between the family-style restaurants of the Japan of my first life, and an English pub I had visited once at the insistence of my boss. The Britannian flag and the imperial coat of arms were everywhere, from the flags draped over the counter to the numerous framed photographs of Britannian and Honorary Britannian soldiers in triumphant poses. Apparently, this establishment catered to soldiers, as a small sign by the register promised a 20% discount to any uniformed service personnel. Fortunately, the restaurant was nearly empty at two in the afternoon, a group of street cleaners in overalls clustered in a booth being the only customers aside from a tired looking young man in a worn yet clean and neatly pressed suit.


As we entered the restaurant, the tired man slowly looked up from his plate of fried fish and potatoes and nodded at us, before returning his attention to his cod. I gestured for Ohgi to join the man at the table before making my way to the counter and ordering for both of us. I was disheartened but not surprised that the menu completely lacked any sort of Japanese cuisine, and resigned myself to another temporary return to the Western-style food of my second life. After ordering a meat pie for Ohgi and a serving of 'bangers and mash' for myself, purposefully ignoring the host's offer of a children's menu, I made my way over to the table where Ohgi and the representative sat in uneasy silence.


As I dropped down into my seat, I weighed my options. I could follow in Ohgi's steps and simply sit silently until the representative spoke first, making him start the conversation and thus take the position of the supplicant. Alternatively, since Ohgi showed no signs of speaking and since the conversation would probably have to be carried out in Britannian lest we draw attention for speaking in a taboo language in an Honorary Britannian establishment, I could start the conversation, thus seizing the initiative.


I'd played chess occasionally, never enough to be particularly good at it, but enough to understand the basics of the game. It was, after all, one of the most commonly used visual metaphors when it came to negotiation or strategy of any kind, so it would have been foolish to attend the War College of a major European power without at least basic familiarity with the game. I understood the argument that black has an inherent advantage by dint of conceding the first move to white, and thus having the luxury of reacting instead of acting. That said, one of the many lessons I'd learned both climbing the corporate ladder and trying to survive the largest war to ever blemish the face of that world was that taking the initiative was the key to success. If I hadn't taken the initiative to enlist in the Army and had instead waited to be drafted, I doubted I would have enjoyed such a rapid trip up the table of ranks. If I hadn't taken the initiative and pushed Ugar towards the Logistics Corps, he might have proven to be serious competition for my advancement – instead, we'd both profited, as I'd gained a valuable ally and he'd gained a respectable career in a safe detachment. If I hadn't taken the initiative and presented myself as a serious and intelligent recruit to Ohgi and Naoto within the first day of knowing them, I would have had a hard time convincing them to take me seriously later on.


I always played white.


"How was the trip in from Kyoto? I've heard plenty of wonderful things about the new maglev line – such an example of the many improvements brought to Area 11, hmm?" It was always tricky, initiating a new business relationship, especially when the person on the other side of the table is a complete stranger. A little small talk to break the ice and get the conversation rolling seemed like the safest option.


To his credit, the man from Kyoto seemed entirely unsurprised for the younger of his conversational partners to be taking the lead on the conversation. Not even a momentary flicker of surprise was evident on his face as he carefully nodded, daubing a bit of grease from his fish away from his mouth. Either he's naturally phlegmatic, or somebody briefed him in advance. "Yes, quite. I'm sure it will make the transportation of merchandise to the Kanto region far simpler in the coming months." He gave me a bland, empty smile that meant nothing at all. "You come quite highly recommended, Miss Hawthorne. According to our contact, you have proven yourself to be quite the dynamo of late. I'm happy you were able to take time out of your busy schedule to meet with me."


"Hawthorne"? ...I suppose using 'Hajime' would be a bad move here. Wonder if he came up with it himself, or was it Mister Asahara's doing?


"It's no problem." I smiled back, equally blandly, and idly gestured at Ohgi. "I'm lucky to have quite a few well-trained and intelligent subordinates – and you know how hard it is to find good help these days." It's always important to share credit where it's due, even if the recipient can't understand what you're currently saying. Plus, no need to come off as some kind of primadonna. I needed to appear to be a good and reliable partner. "Besides, I would hate to make you or your home office feel slighted. I'm quite eager to expand our operations, and your help would be instrumental in accelerating that process."


The meaningless smile returned, just as empty as ever. "Regrettably, there is a slight... issue, with your application. While your ability to inspire confidence and handle domestic competition has been superb thus far, your organization has shown a distinctly lackluster degree of... enthusiasm, when it comes to reaching out into foreign markets." The professional smile beneath the representative's weary eyes appeared to gain a degree of smugness, but it was impossible to nail down the exact micro-expression that conveyed the implied message of superiority and thus take offense; nonetheless, it was clear this smug collaborator was looking down at me. "Until you manage to shore up that portion of your portfolio and display concrete achievements when it comes to the Britannian market, I'm afraid we cannot provide material support, much less investment."


Fucking damn it! In an instant, the meeting had gone from promising to horrible. I should've known just focusing on the gangs would come back to bite me! It was suddenly clear to me: The Six Houses backed anti-Britannian groups, not just armed groups in general! By focusing my initial efforts on cleaning up Shinjuku, I'd inadvertently signaled that our group was purely focused on internal matters! Damn it, don't these old men understand how important it is to build up a power base before picking a fight with a global empire?! Even as I fumed, I knew it didn't matter. The oligarchs in Kyoto had all the power in this exchange, and the price for access to their resources and support was dead Britannians, and I didn't even bring a single Britannian casualty to the table. Fuck, Mister Asahara must have really talked me up for them to have met with me at all.


Even as I internally panicked, I maintained my calm exterior, smile and all. When negotiating, no matter how dire your situation, you must never show weakness, after all. "I understand your organization's concern, though I am very sorry to hear it. Are there any specific export quotas we must meet, or priority targets you wish us to achieve, before I can convince you to reconsider your stance on my group?" I was foolish – I didn't ask Asahara what the Six Houses would specifically want before asking him to contact them! Best to just get their demands straight from the horse's mouth while the representative is here.


To my irritation, the tired man seated across the cheap Formica table simply shrugged, that galling smile still smeared across his baggy face. "Nothing in particular comes to mind. Just... show some results, make it nice and public, and make sure it's in the... foreign sector. Use your imagination – according to our contact, you've got plenty of that, Miss Hawthorne. If you actually manage to achieve anything, well..." That damned smile seemed to grow another inch, and the lips rotated in slightly, baring his teeth at me in a condescending gesture of amusement. "Don't call us, we'll call you. Maybe we'll decide to invest in your little... company after all."


And with that, he popped the last bite of his fried fish in his mouth, stood up, dropped his napkin on the plate, and left. The entire meeting had been, start to finish, just under five minutes.


Ohgi and I hadn't even gotten our meals yet.


Ohgi watched the man from Kyoto leave, and then turned to me and summed up the entire situation in one of the few Britannian phrases he'd picked up from Naoto.


"Well, fuck."


---------


Naoto was irritated, but unsurprised, to hear the outcome of our meeting with the Kyoto House representative. "They're supposed to be pretty choosy." He shrugged as he took the kettle off the hotplate and poured hot water into three cups, drowning the teabags contained within. "It's annoying, but it's their money, so... guess it's up to us to meet their demands."


"I suppose you are correct," I sighed, and accepted a cup from Naoto. "I guess the armed insurrectionist market is just like every other part of a free economy, in that the customer is always right." It was galling to admit, but there was no point in trying to deny the obvious. We lacked any leverage over the Six Houses to compel them to commit resources to our organization, which meant we'd have to concede a degree of autonomy and give them a stake in our decision making process to secure backing. "That said, I think all of us were expecting something along these lines. Rich men, after all, don't stay rich by just giving money away without getting something in exchange."


Ohgi nodded, his acceptance laced with frustration. "True enough. Wish they'd just told us that this would be an issue before wasting our time with that meeting, though." Completely understandable. Beyond wasting our time, the restaurant the Kyoto representative had met us in had been appalling. The sausage, an unwanted but very tangible memory of my previous life, swam uneasily in my stomach, and judging by Ohgi's slight hunch, the meat pie was resisting all digestive efforts with equal vigor.


While it was tempting to continue the gripe session, our time would be better spent planning for the future instead of bemoaning the past. "The meeting wasn't entirely fruitless; at least we know what the Six Houses want in exchange for their support – namely, dead Britannians." I looked down at my tea, and pulled the teabag out before it began to over-steep. "This is not an... unreasonable demand, especially not from where they're sitting in Kyoto, but it's a thorny issue here in Shinjuku."


I didn't need to say why that was the case – both Naoto and Ohgi were already nodding. Ohgi probably remembered the collective punishments from years past just as well as I did – a hundred Elevens for every Britannian knifed in a back alley or hit by a lucky potshot – and Naoto had been in Shinjuku long enough to hear the stories, to see the walls with the neat lines of bullet holes. The Britannian counter-insurgency methods had been brutally effective in the years immediately following the Conquest, and I had little doubt that our occupiers would return to the same bag of tricks if they learned rebellion was blooming in Shinjuku.


"As far as I can tell," Ohgi began, speaking slowly, deliberately, "and correct me if I'm wrong, but the Kyoto man only said that the Britannians had to die publicly, right? There was no requirement that we specifically had to publicly claim credit for their deaths, yeah?"


I carefully replayed the representative's words in my head. Show some results, make it nice and public... "No, he never said we had to claim the attacks. He seemed certain that they'd know if we were responsible." I thought about where Ohgi was going with this, and thought I saw what he was implying.


When I had reoriented the Kozuki Cell, I had framed the decision to target the criminal gangs of Shinjuku in lieu of Britannians as a way of building a power base in Shinjuku and securing a monopoly on potential recruits, but if I was being honest, that decision had also been informed by my experiences as a child. I'd come within a hair's breadth of being part of the hundred put up against a wall once, and I remembered the helpless terror at the prospect, the sick relief when the apartment my mother and I were living in wasn't chosen, and the disgust as I'd been forced to walk past the bloody wall and the heaped bodies of the unlucky hundred. I hadn't wanted to inflict that kind of suffering on others in my former situation, not without a significant and definable gain at least. I also didn't want to be hated by the people of Shinjuku for getting their family slaughtered by vengeful Britannians, the way I had despised the rebel groups of yesteryear for endangering my life.


At the same time, I had always known that at some point, I wouldn't be able to put off directly striking at the Britannians any longer. People were going to die, Japanese that I wanted to preserve for the future prosperity of Area 11 included. That was unfortunately the price tag of a better life; that said, I would do everything in my power to drive the number of Japanese that had to die for the future of people down as low as I could manage. If the men from Kyoto, comfortably warm in mid-December and absolutely sure of their next meals, wanted to force my hand on the issue and move the time table up, I couldn't stop them – but I could mitigate the risk to my people, to the people who would rebuild Area 11 into a prosperous province once again.


"We need to get Kyoto on our side. We need the weapons they can provide, and the money they can funnel into our accounts. Agreed? " When pitching a plan, start on common ground, and get the buy-in of stakeholders.


Naoto and Ohgi nodded in agreement, eyes fixed on mine. Effortlessly, I quashed the first stirrings of mild anxiety. There's no need to fear – we're comrades in this endeavor.


"So we need to kill Britannians. But as Ohgi just pointed out, we don't need to kill Britannians as a rebel group, or even as Japanese. Naoto," I turned my attention fully on the redheaded half-noble as I took a quick sip from my cup. "you've already got your merry little band of assassins in training – what if we smuggled them into the Britannian Concession, and simply had them waylay and knife random Britannians out late at night? If we do it right, perhaps we can dupe the authorities into thinking there's a serial murderer on the loose?"


Naoto looked thoughtful, but Ohgi was shaking his head. "I like the idea, Tanya, but the idea of just murdering random people in the street... I mean, they're Britannians, but how does that help us?" Ohgi had a point there – knifing random civilians wouldn't do much to advance our goals, beyond fulfilling the minimum requirement imposed by Kyoto House.


"That's a fair point, Ohgi." Always acknowledge useful input. "We still need some Britannian blood on our hands to attract outside investment from Kyoto, though. Do you have any suggestions?"


Ohgi leaned forward slightly. "Instead of knifing random Britannian civilians, how about we target someone who actually deserves it? The Purists, for example?" I winced at the overconfidence on display. We just managed to take down one piddly gang, and you think we're ready for political assassinations, Ohgi? Dammit, man!


I tried to think of a way to let Ohgi down gently, to try and find a way to phrase my opinion of his... ambitious idea in a polite and inoffensive way, but before I could say anything, Naoto was already shaking his head at Ohgi. "Ohgi, bro, look... All of the big time Purists are nobles, so they're gonna have security. We're not ready to try and kill nobles in their manors, not while getting away with it."


Then it was Ohgi's turn to furiously shake his head in negation. "No, I don't mean the officers – I mean just the normal soldiers! I already said that I liked Tanya's idea of bringing your unit into the Tokyo Settlement, Naoto, I just objected to killing random civilians!" Ohgi turned towards me, teased pompadour bobbing slightly as he enthusiastically gesticulated. "Remember what Kallen said, about the divide between the Purists and the rest of the military in the Area? What if there's a street fight outside one of the bars where the soldiers go to drink, and a few Purists happen to get stabbed by men in Britannian uniform, eh? That's going to drive that rift wide open!"


Ohgi turned back to Naoto, eyes shining as he elaborated on his idea. "Plus, if we steal the right uniforms, the men will be able to blend in as Honorary Britannians. If Purists suddenly start dying at the hands of Honorary Britannian soldiers, that will definitely enrage the Purists!"


"Ohgi, that's an excellent idea!" I'd been infected by Ohgi's enthusiasm, but the idea was too brilliant to resist. "The Britannians already have a tradition of government by assassination, don't they? So this wouldn't even be too far out of character!" But what about the Honorary Britannians? I didn't want to start a pogrom against the Honorary Britannians – after all, given the opportunity I would have happily accepted the offer of second-class citizenship if it had actually been a path to a better life, or to some measure of safety. They might be collaborators, especially the Honorary Britannians who had chosen to serve in the Britannian army, but they were still Japanese human resources that could potentially be won back. Plus, Kallen might call me out for my hypocrisy if I suddenly announced that Honorary Britannians were the enemy. Hmm... How to redirect the anger away from the obvious target...?


"We need a Britannian to lead the hit squad." I saw Naoto and Ohgi's puzzled expressions, and hastily explained. "The Britannians would never believe that their pet Elevens decided to get up to the business of murdering Purists themselves – they'd think it was some rebel movement infiltrating the Honorary Britannian ranks, and start an investigation. But, if the 'Honorary Britannians' were directed by a Britannian..." I let the idea hang in the air for a moment, before continuing. "Plus, Honorary Britannian units are usually led by Britannians anyway, and usually nobles at that. Fortunately, we've got a noble of military age and build right here at this table." I nodded at Naoto. "If a group of Honorary Britannians tasked with following a young drunk junior officer around for a night on the town to keep him out of trouble happen to bump into some Purists, well... who knows what sparks might fly between a loudmouth and a group of arrogant idiots?"


Judging by the eager smile spreading over Naoto's face, the prospect of getting his hands dirty didn't trouble him in the least.


After that, the rest of the plan fell in line.


The best way to get uniforms, we decided, would be to steal a load of laundry from one of the Honorary Britannian barracks. We would need to find out when they sent the laundry out to be washed, and how the workers who collected the laundry dressed, and Naoto brought up Kallen's new role as a student reporter as a potential information gathering source. If a young noble lady pitched the idea of a patriotic article about barracks life to the commander of an Honorary Britannian unit, who likely would be desperate for recognition so he'd be promoted to command of a Britannian unit instead, getting an authorized tour of the barracks was entirely possible. We wouldn't be able to secure helmets or armor, but full battle rattle wouldn't be necessary if the unit of "soldiers" was just keeping an eye on an officer deep into his cups. We'd need at least one uniform from a junior officer, and ideally at least one soldier's uniform with a NCO's rank tabs to really pull off the idea of a nursemaiding detachment complete with an orderly.


Once we had the uniforms secured, the infiltrating party could wear them under the overalls typically worn by Eleven workers in the Settlement. Securing work permits would require a few bribes, but would be eminently doable, and once in the Settlement the team could hang around pretending to sweep streets or something similar until nightfall, when they could pull off the overalls and put on whatever bits of the Britannian uniforms that they hadn't been able to openly wear earlier.


In terms of scoping out potential locations, the districts catering to entertaining soldiers were already well-known to us, since those districts employed plenty of Eleven labor for a variety of tasks. Still, Kallen and I could visit one or more of those areas in the next few days to survey the lay of the land and identify bars and brothels that looked like they catered to the Purists' sensibilities – hiring low-class Britannians as entertainers, for example, instead of the cheaper Elevens. Perhaps we'd even be able to pitch that as another potential article for Kallen's budding career as a reporter, though that might draw a bit too much suspicion to her. Ohgi had winked and suggested that nobody would disturb a pair of cute girls out on a nice dinner date before Naoto smacked him, but I had to conclude that his joking idea had some merit, much to Naoto's visible irritation.


Once Naoto and his group found potential targets, they would do everything they could to start a fight, ideally dragging in other soldiers in the area into the fight as well. Considering how public the divide between the main officer corps and the Purist leadership under Lord Kewell was, it was highly probable the feelings of animosity had filtered down to the lower ranks, so hopefully provoking a brawl between the Britannian factions would be fairly easy. Either way, as soon as the fighting began in earnest, the "Honorary Britannians" backing Naoto would move in on the Purists, ideally with at least one man to pin the target's limbs and another to wield the knife. As soon as the blood hit the street, Naoto's unit would break contact and disappear into the night, discarding any clothing with visible splatter marks and pulling their overalls back on. They'd find a place to lay low throughout the rest of the night, and join the ranks of weary Elevens slouching back into the ghetto early the next morning.


Ohgi was somewhat dissatisfied with the plan, citing both the number of moving parts involved and the amount of luck we were relying on, particularly when it came to the assassins escaping pursuit and returning to Shinjuku without being detected. He also pointed out that, even if everything went off as planned, there was no guarantee that Kyoto would recognize the deaths of a handful of Purist soldiers presumably at the hands of their erstwhile comrades as our work. I had to concede his last point, but I pointed out that the strike on the station market had a similar number of variables, and that every plan relied on good luck to a degree. "The Kyoto representative said they'd contact us if they changed their mind," I pointed out. "If that's the case, let them gather their own intelligence – either they'll recognize our worth and they'll help us out, or they won't. Either way, the chance to turn the Britannians against each other is far too good to pass up. If they're busy fighting each other, they likely won't notice their pet gangs being rolled up in Shinjuku until it's too late." Besides, if the Britannians really do decide to take their anger out on their collaborators, that will surely undermine faith in the Honorary Britannian system. Who knows, perhaps the Britannians will do our work for us, and provoke an outright mutiny among their slave soldiers?


And so, the plan to dip our daggers into the Britannian back was tentatively agreed upon, and I texted Kallen to arrange our next trip into the Settlement.


---------


A week before Christmas, the streets of the Tokyo Settlement thrummed with the frantic energy of consumerism as consumers darted their way from store to store, engaging in an orgy of purchasing. Bundled in my still-new black jacket and a purple knit cap topped with a large bobble purchased on my behalf by Kallen, I wondered at the existence of Christmas in this universe, and at its enthusiastic if capitalistic celebration by the Britannians. It was frankly baffling that Christianity, much less the Christmas holiday, had survived in this universe, which had departed from the history of my original world in the days of Julius Caesar, if not earlier. I had known that Britannia was officially a Holy Empire, and I vaguely remembered from my lessons at the Shinjuku School for Elevens that the imperial family lived on Saint Darwin's Street, but I hadn't thought about the implications of those bits of trivia before – I'd been more concerned with making it through the day. Now, though, as I walked and talked with my friend through the streets of the Tokyo Settlement, I could only shake my head at the number of Santa caps I could see bobbing through the crowd.


"-so it shouldn't be too difficult." I forced my attention away from the bizarre commonalities across the multiverse, and focused back on Kallen's observations about the Honorary Britannian barracks. "I mean, based on what I saw, the staff at the barracks all just wear blue boiler suits, and I know that Nagata's got a whole pile of those things stashed away somewhere for plumbing work and the like. Anyway, as long as the team's out of the complex by thirteen-hundred, before the normal crew shows up, nobody's going to know the difference."


"We're going to need to rent a truck." I noted as I squeezed through a gap between two groups of slow-moving pedestrians, Kallen close behind. "If the team is just hauling big sacks of laundry through the Concession, it's going to draw attention."


"And one without the usual rental markers." Kallen agreed, capturing my hand in hers and gently but firmly tugging me onto a municipal bus, swiping her card twice over the reader. "The usual group just used a white panel one, I think. They were pulling around the back just as I was leaving. We're getting off in five stops, by the way."


I nodded in response and stopped looking for a seat, grabbing one of the support poles instead as the bus lurched into motion. Beside me, Kallen easily swayed with the motion, ignoring the jostling crowd around us as she looked down at the writing scrawled across her miniature notepad. She truly looked the part of the young reporter, diligently hunting the next scoop under her black and gray checked billed cap, the soft brown leather of her fitted jacket contrasting nicely with both her shoulder length red hair and the green silk blouse she wore underneath the jacket and a tailored black vest. The black slacks and low-heeled boots completed the look, and I felt a familiar surge of envy at how easily Kallen moved and balanced in heels. I had no desire to wear the silly things, of course, but I was almost certain that I'd have fallen over when the bus started moving if I'd been wearing those shoes, support pole or not.


Focus, dammit! I shook my head, trying to clear my mind and get back on track. "So, how was it visiting an Honorary Britannian unit's base? Was it frightening?" I carefully pitched my Britannian to have the right notes of curiosity, awe, and concern. Now that I'd become fully conversational in the language of the invader, I had been working with Kallen to refine my delivery to fit my apparent age and appearance. A middle-class Britannian girl still two months shy of her twelfth birthday was going to be sheltered, I decided, and amazed at the daring of her older friend to brave the den of the barbarian horde of mildly-civilized Elevens. Never mind that they aren't even trusted to carry weapons, I sneered internally at the thought, and never mind that they've accepted that insult with just as much resistance as they have the thousand that came before it either.


Kallen looked up from her notebook and smirked down at me, eyes dancing with amusement at my piping and worshipful tones, and I cursed her roundly from the safety of my head. "It wasn't scary at all, Tanya! They're just infantry, you know, not Knightmare devicers or anything like that. Plus, there was a whole battalion of Britannians keeping me busy, so it's not like I was lacking for chaperones!" Her smirk transmuted into a mocking smile. "Just had to fawn over their uniforms and say how brave and strong they all were, and they couldn't wait to tell me anything I wanted to know!" Kallen flipped to another page in her notepad before handing it over. "Including all the locations where they and other soldiers drink, and where the Purists usually make nuisances of themselves. Apparently, there's already been several fights – one of the lieutenants even spent a few nights in the brig until the major had him let out."


I nodded appreciatively as I ran my eyes down the list of names and addresses of entertainment facilities patronized by soldiers, all jolted down in lilac ink in Kallen's fine handwriting. I noticed about a third of the addresses had hearts beside them, and asked about that as I handed the notepad over.


"Brothels." Kallen replied, as she flipped the pad closed and tucked it back into her purse.


"Ah, brothels." I'd never patronized sex workers when I'd been a man, I'd died before I'd ever had the first inclination to engage one of the camp followers that always seemed to lurk around the back lines, and of course in this life I'd never had any interest to go anywhere near the "entertainment districts" near the checkpoints into Shinjuku closest to the Britannian barracks. That said, I doubted any man, Purist or otherwise, could be more vulnerable than when they were freshly... spent, and in all probability drunk to boot. "I'm surprised they mentioned them to you."


Kallen shook her head with an expression of mingled disgust and pity. "One of the Britannnian privates I spoke to while waiting for the Captain to be available for an interview was seventeen, and very eager to let me know how worldly he was." I'd rarely felt so in tune with the feminine as I did in that moment as I exchanged a scornful look with Kallen that just said Boys! loud enough to nearly be audible.


We continued to chat as the bus slowly rolled its way down the packed streets of the Britannian Concession. This was the third time Kallen had invited me to accompany her into the Settlement since the memorable night of the first communal dinner, and each time I'd left the ghetto the streets had grown increasingly congested. By the time Kallen had rescued me from the apartment after a week of enforced bed rest and light chores, the Christmas lights had been up for days and the commercial feeding frenzy had well and truly begun. I'd mulled over the possibility of smuggling one of Mister Asahara's finest toys out of the ghetto and into one of the many crowded stores, the results of which would have no doubt fulfilled Kyoto House's stipulation, but ultimately I had decided against taking advantage of the dense throngs of shoppers. The deaths of any Britannian shoppers would undoubtedly be hung around the necks of the Honorary Britannians and the Elevens that worked menial jobs in the glittering shopping centers.


Which brought me back to the night's itinerary. Kallen had found a small bistro in the nearby entertainment district located only two streets away from a brothel that specialized in Britannian working girls, imported straight from the homeland for Britannia's native sons in far off Area 11.


The brothel, the 'Lacy Garter', was apparently owned through a holding company, to preserve respectability, by a Sir George Carew, whose son was a member of the Purist branch in the area of the world I had known as Argentina. I had found it fascinating that apparently Britannian brothel culture was just as strictly stratified as the rest of Britannian society, with the institutions run in the ghetto itself reserved for Honorary Britannians, Britannians engaged in "manual trades", or soldiers under the rank of Corporal. So Ohgi probably was right about what happened to her. A crowd of drunken soldiers, having fun raising hell in the ghetto because they weren't good enough to visit a bordello in the Settlement... Interestingly, Kallen had found a whole guide about this very topic, which she had been kind enough to allow me to read off her phone as I pressed up against her side. I noted that there was no mention of the underground fleshpits that Inoue had told me about. Even the underworld has a sordid, undesirable side in Britannia...


Between the ethnicity of the prostitutes available at the 'Lacy Garter', and the fact that the owner was likely a Purist sympathizer at the very least, Naoto and Kallen believed that it was the most likely place to find obvious Purists after nightfall. So, under the guise of two friends enjoying a slightly risque trip to the seedier side of town, Kallen and I would use the excuse of dinner to keep an eye on the foot traffic in the area to see if the Kozuki siblings' guess had proven correct. If not, there were several other similar locations scattered around the Tokyo Settlement for us to survey, which would give me the excuse to enjoy more food that I didn't have to cook myself.


As we got off the bus, I noticed the general mood of the street had changed. The holiday decorations had thinned out, and the demographics of the crowd had shifted from mostly female and middle aged to predominantly male and young. Groups of out of uniform enlisted soldiers and sailors, still obviously military from their body language, milled in the cold air and drank openly from cans, bottles, and flasks. Interestingly, Britannian soldiers didn't appear to be under any requirement to keep their hair short, as soldiers had been in my first life. All of the obviously military young men around me had hair at least to ear level, and a few even had shoulder-length hair. The young women drinking and laughing with the men who were not dressed in skimpy dresses and tiny bolero jackets also had long hair, with one notable blonde sporting a nearly waist-length braid.


It was very strange, seeing the young soldiers of Britannia out of uniform for the first time. The soldiers manning the checkpoints of the ghetto wore helmets with face-plates and built-in gas masks; when the Britannians conducted raids and operations in the ghetto, the only men not wearing the standard full face concealing mask were officers, who foolishly wore uniform caps even in active combat zones. Guess they think they don't need to worry about snipers while lining people up against the nearest wall. Due to their role as the ground-level face of the occupation, not to mention their masks, it was easy to forget that the men and women inside those uniforms were just as human and varied as any other group of people. After spending so much time around Westerners in my second life, many of the faces I saw around me looked eerily familiar. That man downing a can of cheap light beer in a single long draft had the same hairstyle as Weiss, and the man next to him cheering his efforts could have been... Well, not Grantz's brother, but maybe a cousin. He's got the same nose.


It was strange, seeing the features of my long lost... subordinates... in the faces of my enemies. I almost wondered if I approached the now spluttering man and yelled "Weiss!" at his back if he would instinctively snap to attention, the way the man himself always had when surprised... I wonder if any of these men have beaten a whore before? The thought bubbled up from deep inside, like filthy bubbles of captured gas stirred up from the muck of a riverbed. Immediately, the vague warmness of nostalgia fled, and I remembered that murmured conversation I'd overheard between Ohgi and Naoto, both well into their cups, only a week after I'd moved into their apartment. "Just another Eleven whore, beaten to death in the slum. Nobody's going to care, Naoto, especially since she usually worked near the barracks. Probably ran into a crowd of drunk soldiers, you know how that story goes."


I didn't resist when Kallen took my hand and pulled me along into the crowd, following her phone's directions to the bistro she'd picked out for tonight's dinner, and I duly kept up my side of the inane chatter that was a key part of our "disguise". I carefully made sure to smile, to laugh, and to not look too long into the dark alleyways between the brick facades. I even ate my dinner, every last bite mechanically deposited into my mouth and chewed without an instant of taste. But for the rest of the evening, all I could picture were bruises upon bruises, gone yellow in the center and ringed with purple, and all I could hear was weeping, the dull sound of thrusting not quite muffled by a thin pillow.


I'll never be able to find the ones who killed her, but that just means that every single one of them could have been there... And a good worker never leaves a job half-finished. I laughed at Kallen's joke, sipping on my coffee as she jotted down her observations on the bistro for the other part of our cover, a review of the cafe for the Ashford student newspaper, and wondered what the woman who I'd barely known would have said if she knew what her daughter was planning. I hoped she would be pleased, as I had an unsettled debt I owed her, but unless Being X was feeling particularly cruel I would never really know. Fitting, since I never really knew her in life either.


---------


Several days later, Naoto and Nagata arrived at the hideout, hauling several bags of freshly stolen laundry down the two flights of stairs into the sub-basement. I sat idly at the table, munching on a baloney and lettuce sandwich as the two staggered over to the storage section of the hideout and dropped their heavy burdens at the foot of the shelves, secure in my excuse of not wanting to endanger my stitches to the point where I felt no need to hurl myself headfirst into any available work. The four recruits who had been blazing away at paper targets with Britannian Army-issue coilgun pistols, however, weren't so lucky.


"Cease fire! Safe your weapons! Are you tryin' tah kill me, you idiots?!" Tamaki's bellow effortlessly overwhelmed the sounds of electromagnetically accelerated firearms, and within seconds all four pistols were safe'd and on the range's table in a neat row. "You lot are getting sloppy! Take a five minute break from shooting - and help Naoto haul that fucking garbage inside! Go, go, go!"


It had been a surprise, watching Tamaki in action as a trainer. Despite the way he was swaggering around and barking at them, the recruits all grinned back at Tamaki as he bossed them around, and Hojo even gave him a mocking salute. I would have stepped in to discourage the disrespectful response, but all four immediately hustled over to Naoto and Nagata, helping them move the bags out of the way and following the pair back up stairs to haul down the next load. I'd initially encouraged Ohgi, and through him Naoto, to put Tamaki in charge of training at least partially to give Tamaki some experience with responsibility and with leadership, but I'd harbored admittedly mixed expectations of his performance. I'd hoped he'd be able to teach them the basics of obedience, of whatever physical training program he did to get so lean and muscular, and the basics of firearm use and maintenance, but I hadn't expected him to handle the first batch of recruits entrusted to him half as well as he had. Frankly, it wasn't the way I would have trained them, and it was certainly a far cry from either the methods or the philosophy I had used when training my beautiful 203rd, but the situation was far different as well. It had been made clear to me by events over the last eight months that an irregular group like our own ran not on obedience to a hierarchy, but influence from personal bonds and from the reputation garnered by one's actions and capabilities. Tamaki was well on his way to developing both with his trainees.


The former gangsters obviously had a familiarity with violence, but that was almost more of a hindrance than anything else, from what Tamaki told me. They had never been trained to fight, picking up everything as they went, and apparently they were full of bad habits. One of the men hadn't taken kindly to Tamaki saying as much during the first days of their training, and it hadn't been until Tamaki had slammed him to the ground and pinned him three times in a "best three of five" set of free-form brawls that he'd finally started listening. The ex-gangsters were clearly accustomed to taking orders from people they perceived as strong, which was a good thing both for their training and for the process of weaning Hojo off the painkiller addiction he'd confessed at the Rising Sun building. Despite the man's nausea, anxiety, and the pain radiating from his scarred limb, Hojo was still holding strong and listening to Tamaki's commands, with Naoto's occasional support. Tamaki had proven remarkably sympathetic, according to Naoto, and the two of them apparently were already friends despite Tamaki's status as Hojo's teacher and supervisor. Reputation and personal influence, both artless in their sincerity. Tamaki was indeed proving his worth as a training officer.


Unfortunately, in recovery or not, Hojo would not be accompanying Tamaki and Naoto into Tokyo. He and his fellow ex-gangster recruit, Hina, the sole female of the cohort, wouldn't fit the role of "Honorary Britannian soldiers", since as far as Kallen had discovered in her information gathering the only units of Honorary Britannian soldiers in the area were entirely male. That said, the other two male recruits were apparently coming along splendidly, according to Tamaki's reports. They would be more than capable of playing the silent Honorary Britannian muscle, following a slacking officer around and keeping the muggers away from his wallet, up until it came time to play the part of the sicarii.


As the recruits came back down the stairs with more bulging canvas sacks slung over their shoulders, I decided to be mildly productive and diverted two of the laundry bags over to my table, bolting down the last of my sandwich as Hojo staggered over, sweating from the exertion of rushing up and down stairs with a load and presumably, also from his ongoing withdrawal pains. I thanked him around a mouthful of lunch meat, earning a wan smile that was half a painful grimace, before he staggered off to rejoin his cohort over at the range. For a criminal, he has a commendable work ethic.


Doing my best to ignore the stench of sweat and filth, I dumped the first sack onto the table, and started going through the heap of clothing. Naoto soon joined me, and we sifted through the heap of unwashed fatigues, finally separating out three complete sets of fatigues, including the real prize, a uniform shirt and jacket with a first sergeant's rank tabs. We set those aside, along with three undershirts, to be washed and dried for the upcoming mission. Finding an officer's uniform took a surprisingly short time, since unlike the enlisted and NCOs whose individual laundry sacks were crammed into larger formation-level bags, the officers' laundry was bagged separately. The challenging part was finding a uniform that fit Naoto's tall frame and broad shoulders, since it seemed like the three lieutenants were all shorter and than he was. Ultimately, Naoto ended up with a captain's uniform with sewn-on lieutenant tabs. In the unlikely event that anybody noticed, hopefully they'd chalk the minor discrepancy up to a recent demotion, which might help to explain why he was drunkenly wandering around and picking fights.


"Whew! Glad that's over." Naoto stood up from the couch and stretched, before knuckling his back, sighing with satisfaction at something popped under the kneading motion. "Never thought I'd end up pawing through other men's dirty laundry for the cause – or at least, not this literally! Eh?" He smiled down at me, moving his eyebrows up and down like a stereotypical dirty old man.


I gave his weak attempt at humor the pity laugh obligated by the mores of society, and the fool dramatically groaned his misery at the response, palming his face and sinking back to the couch. "Misery! Oh misery! I have given so much, sacrificed so much for Japan, and yet I'm still mocked by the youth! What will become of us old folk, subject to the whims of evil children?"


"Cry the beloved country, these things are not yet at an end." I replied in Britannian, quoting a book I was certain had never been written in this universe, and certainly would not have been allowed to see the light of day if it were. "After all, you've still got to wash your laundry so you don't drive the Purists with your stench before you can put a knife between their ribs. Also, you should probably wash all the other uniforms too – we might need them later." I considered volunteering to take a few of the recruits and get started on the task, but then I remembered Naoto's pathetic joke and reconsidered. "I would, of course, help you out, oh Glorious Leader, but my wound sadly leaves me incapable of scrubbing clothes enough to get the stench of traitors out – so I guess it's up to you."


Naoto let out a second, more elaborate, groan of anguish and collapsed back onto the couch. I patted his knee with feigned sympathy and got to my feet, scooping up the backpack Kallen had given me months back and swinging it onto my back as I rose. "By the way," I began, dropping the mockingly obsequious tone, "Tomorrow's going to be Christmas Eve, and two weeks to the day from the meeting with Kyoto House. I'm sure they're impatiently waiting to see what we'll do to earn their good graces and support – and I'm also sure that there will be plenty of drunken soldiers wandering around." I turned back to Naoto, who'd straightened up on the couch, and smiled at him. "Why don't you and your boys join the festivities, and go get the old men in Kyoto a nice Christmas present tomorrow night?"


Naoto paused for a moment, turning the idea over in his head, and nodded. "I'll tell Kallen to get four work passes arranged for tomorrow." He stood up, and pulled out his phone, following me to the door of the hideout. Behind us Tamaki yelled something indistinct, and the sounds of coilguns began to echo through the subterranean concrete box once more. "There'll definitely be lots of need for street cleaners tomorrow, so I expect there will be more passes issued to handle all the holiday bullshit than normal. We've already got the overalls and such for each man, so once the uniforms are clean we'll be ready."


I nodded my satisfaction and almost turned to go when I saw a somewhat shifty expression cross the other half-Britannian's face. "Out with it."


Naoto coughed, and started to blush, visibly embarrassed. "I, uhh... I can't sew. I'm going to need some, umm... help to get the rank tabs onto the uniform." Being significantly taller than my four and a quarter feet, Naoto of course always looked down at me in the literal sense, but in that moment he somehow seemed shorter than I was. It's probably the puppy-dog eyes. "Could you help me get them on please, Tanya? I don't want to ask Kallen... The last time I got her to sew a patch onto my jeans, she said she'd start charging if I ever asked again."


I felt the desire to leave him to whatever market price Kallen could extort from his lazy body. Why the hell can't he just learn to sew himself? Unfortunately, as someone else had discovered in a different life, my tolerance to the "sad puppy look" was intolerably low. I felt an irritated groan rise in my throat, and stifled it only with determined effort. Why do I keep agreeing to help people? I'm supposed to be a ruthless guerrilla, a rebel fighting a shadow war, dammit! "Wash the fucking uniform first. I'm not going to let my nostrils be polluted with the stink of Britannia any longer!"


As Naoto boomed out an overly enthusiastic "Thank you!", I turned on my heel and stormed off, jealous that the redheaded louse would soon have the opportunity to blow off some steam in the Britannian Concession, complete with a work related excuse to stagger around the entertainment areas of town feigning public intoxication and the opportunity to engage in some highly unprofessional conduct. Meanwhile, I'm still benched at home thanks to my already all-but healed flesh wound, left to do the domestic work and helping out with the Rising Sun's paperwork while my leader gets to knife whoremongering Purists!


I suddenly realized what I had been thinking and came to a stop in the street outside the ruined tenement that cloaked the entrance to the hideout, replaying the last few points of my internal monologue. I'm... upset... that I have to stay back and do the rear echelon work... instead of going out and picking fights with Britannians...? That couldn't be right. I'd always wanted rear echelon work, and suddenly I'd had a perfect reason to stay safely away from combat dumped in my lap. My work was well respected, and everybody acknowledged my planning and support roles as valuable and necessary. I had a "salary" of food, funds and shelter, an outrageous degree of luxury in the slums, and I had a meaningful job with pleasant coworkers and the respect of my peers. By all logic, I had it made. So why am I so jealous of Naoto and the rest of his team? I paused, and then shook my head. It was just a foolish impulse, that's all.


But... The memory of laughing Britannians, drunk on cheap beer and the invincibility of youth, scantily clad women with mostly Japanese features with a few halfbreeds thrown in fawning over them in the street, trying not to shiver in the near-midwinter cold... "I wonder if any of these men have beaten a whore before?" Something still burned in me, as I imagined the bacchanalia of the entertainment district turning to horror as the sting of war intruded on the Britannian sector for a night, the way it always hung over Shinjuku like a choking shroud. I hoped lots of Britannians ended up blamed for the fight and the deaths sure to come, quixotic as the hope might be. It would be nice if the Britannians ended up beating each other to death in the streets for once, instead of some unlucky Eleven sister or daughter, wife or mother.


Forcing the fantasy away and the emotional lump in my throat back down, I ignored the feverish heat radiating from my belly and started walking again. I might not be on call to fight tomorrow night, but I could eat plenty and get lots of sleep before Naoto left for the Settlement. If any sign that something had gone wrong came through, I'd be ready to go with every bit of my pitiful magic available to bail them out. And hopefully leave a few empty places at the old Christmas dinner table myself.

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 15: A Christmas Surprise


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


The liberated fatigue pants had not, to Tamaki's mild annoyance, come with a belt, and hung loose around his hips as a result. Since Naoto and Nagata had just robbed the contents of the laundry hampers, it wasn't surprising that things like belts and boots were missing, but scrounging around at the last minute to secure replacements had been kinda irritating. Fortunately, Tamaki had been able to pass it off to his little group of rookies as a training exercise improving their scrounging and improvisation skills. Fortunately, the ex-gangsters had retained every bit of their ability to requisition goods as necessary; The blackened work boots looked pretty much like combat boots, at least from a distance, and the clearly non-regulation buckle on his belt would be hidden under first the overalls, and then the uniform's jacket.


Tamaki snapped the buckle of said belt closed with a satisfying click and straightened up, taking a long look down at himself, making sure the pants hung straight and no bulge was evident on his left thigh where the Britannian-issue combat knife was strapped. Fortunately, the gray and black uniform trousers betrayed no obvious sign of the hidden knife, and any slight crease in the fabric would be hidden by his second layer. Satisfied with the first level of his disguise, Tamaki buttoned up his threadbare cotton work shirt and stepped into the pooled legs of his overalls, pulling the stinking, stained garment up over the uniform trousers and fastening the clips of the shoulder straps.


Finally, Tamaki pulled an equally worn and patched black winter coat over his shoulders to complete the appearance of a transitory Eleven worker, the outer layer heavy and warm thanks to the hidden contents of the lining. The interior lining of the coat had been carefully cut out, the uniform jacket sewn in with loose, fragile stitching as an intermediate layer along with the folded uniform cap, and the original lining sewn back into place. Unfortunately, once the active stage of the plan was done, the lining-less jackets would be more or less useless as warm layers during the extraction process, but Tamaki supposed that a few hours of cold was preferable to detection and detainment at the checkpoint back into Shinjuku.


Satisfied with his own disguise, Tamaki turned and looked over at Naoto, who was lounging against a wall and fiddling with an unlit "Quarter" handroll. The half-noble hadn't shaved in the last several days, giving him a look of general dishevelment, and his distinctive red hair had been dyed blonde and crammed away under a cap. In his own threadbare overalls and jacket, coupled with the total lack of any poise, no trace of Kozuki Naoto, the rising terror of Shinjuku, could be seen – all Tamaki saw was an exhausted worker, hungry for the meager relief provided by the low nicotine content of the ghetto smoke in his trembling fingers. Fuck, Naoto's going method with his acting!


At the sound of a muttered curse, Tamaki looked over at the two members of his unit he'd be leading into the Tokyo Settlement with Naoto. Gin, a rangy man in his mid-twenties, had just finished lacing up his boot and was fiddling with the pant's leg, carefully blousing the bottom into the top of his boot in the way that some Honorary Britannians did, following the example of the Britannians instead of the exact requirements of their manual. Inuyama already had his boots on and was muttering curses as he violently shoved a hand down his pants, trying to shift the location of the hidden knife. Inuyama was so involved in his work, half his right forearm in his uniform trousers, that he didn't even notice Tamaki approaching.


"Hey now! We're goin' intah the field, Inuyama! Save that kinda thing 'til we get back!" Tamaki laughed as he dropped his arm across his subordinate's shoulder, the other man leaping up and nearly biting his tongue as he tried to turn on his left heel, still with his arm down his pants. "The hell are yah tryin' to do anyway?"


As soon as Inuyama realized who'd accosted him, he stopped trying to simultaneously curse, turn, and stab Tamaki, and instead just chuckled with an unmistakable edge of smugness. "No need to do that now or after the mission, yah damned punk!" Inuyama looked up at Tamaki, a shit-eating grin on his face. "Hina's been takin' real good care of me – turns out your suggestion about that bottle of single-malt was right on the money!"


Tamaki let out a whoop of excitement. "Dude! Congrats, man! So that's where you two disappeared to last night! Fuck yeah!" He considered going for a high-five, but reconsidered when he realized that Inuyama was still nearly elbow deep in his own trousers, settling for a congratulatory pat on the back instead. "I hope that old bastard Jiroo didn't charge yah too much fer the bottle?"


Inuyama winced slightly, but smiled again. "It was totally worth it, man. Even if it is kinda hard to share a sleeping bag."


Tamaki smiled back at his subordinate, internally congratulating himself on his work so far. After Tanya, Ohgi, and Naoto had suddenly dropped responsibility for the recruits on his lap several weeks ago, Tamaki had decided to prioritize building loyalty in his new recruits right behind building obedience. Fortunately, between Tanya's victory over the gang – surprising only to the new recruits, as Tamaki's shoulder was still sore on cold nights from the one time he'd crossed the little goblin – and the utterly terrifying display of ruthlessness courtesy of Naoto, the whole issue of obedience had been more or less settled before it had even come up. Sure, Tamaki had been forced to prove his ability to lead by flooring Inuyama a couple of times back at the beginning, but that wasn't a big deal or anything. Plus, the man was a great drinking buddy and sparring partner, so Tamaki was fine with a little bit of lip.


So, since he didn't really need to worry much about disobedience, Tamaki had focused on building up loyalty to both himself and to the organization in his new trainees. Tamaki knew he wasn't exactly brilliant, but he wasn't stupid either, and he'd been keeping a close eye on Tanya after she'd effortlessly beaten him into the ground. He'd realized that the girl he'd once been foolish enough to call a Brit almost made it a point to not rule by fear or strength – instead, she'd made an effort to reach out to every member of the cell and get to know them, and to give them what they wanted.


Inoue had been stressed from carrying all the boring work on her shoulders, and had been feeling a bit isolated, being the only woman in the cell – Kallen didn't count – and Tanya had given her a female friend and an assistant who understood all that math crap.


Nagata loved his wife and kid deeply – that much was obvious from just a casual conversation with the man. Tamaki had known him for almost two years now, and knew he was torn between the fear of dying and not knowing his kid, and having his kid grow up in a slum. Tanya had given him a job that didn't involve any frontline combat, and had also made sure he had plenty of food to pay for a neighborhood granny to look after the kid.


Tamaki didn't like self-reflection or any of that crap, but after he'd realized what Tanya was doing, he started to wonder what she was giving to him to get his loyalty. He knew he respected the little squirt – she was a monster in hand to hand, an incredible shot, and absolutely cold as ice when it came time to kill – but he was surprised to find that he liked her too. For all her nagging, she was pretty good company, after you got over the initial reaction of "oh shit, a fucking Brit's in our base!" and all that. She had a subtle sense of humor, where jokes she told flew past his head until a second later when they slammed home, she was happy to chat with him about guns or knightmares and other crap, and she was a hard worker. She doesn't treat me like an idiot either. That was important – even Ohgi and Naoto looked at him sometimes like he was some kind of clown, but Tanya never did. She often looked irritated or disappointed, but she never looked down at him. Looking back on it, Tamaki thought it was that respect, more than anything else, that had earned her his loyalty.


Tamaki was sick of thinking by the time he'd gotten through all that, and so he'd rounded up all of his little crew for a trip to a private slice of heaven. A year or two ago, his buddy Chisao – who had welding equipment – and two or three other guys plus Tamaki had gotten together to make their own "gym" in a mostly abandoned basement. The homemade weights were crappy – just a variety of pipes with amounts of sand inside and caps welded over their ends – but they did the job, as did the creaky wooden bench Gendo, who knew a bit of carpentry, had nailed together and glued a cushion onto. This was his secret home away from home, where he came to maintain his toned physique, where he kept himself as shredded as any honest Japanese guy could on the thin food and low protein levels available in Shinjuku. The new recruits had taken the gesture for what it was – an expression of trust, and an offer for group communion. People join up to gangs for more than just a fully belly and protection – they join up for brotherhood, for friends.


Tamaki wondered if Tanya knew how good her idea to put him in charge of the former gangsters had been. After all, he'd come within a hairsbreadth of joining up with the gangs, before Naoto and Ohgi had returned to his life and pulled him into their anti-Britannian action group. The only reason he'd been free to join up with them was he could feel his father's ghost smack him over the head whenever he thought of joining up, but those slaps had been weakening in the months leading up to Ohgi's sudden arrival. Yeah, I know a thing or two about the kinda folks who join gangs, alright.


After he brought them to the basement gym and set them free on the weights, Tamaki had taken Hojo, Hina, Inuyama, and Gin aside one by one, talking with them and getting to know his new comrades.


Hojo's hook had been pretty easy to figure out, since he'd already owned up to the whole pain-pill addiction thing, but Tamaki had taken the time to ask about more than just "what's your T-level like?", and had found himself rewarded with a pent-up river of unspoken thoughts and smothered ambitions, which he frankly had no idea how to handle. Taking a page from Tanya's book, he'd nodded seriously, maintained eye contact, and thanked Hojo for his openness once the torrent of words had slowed to a relative trickle. When Tamaki handed over the pills set aside by Naoto to help wean Hojo off his dependency, he made sure to be as respectful as possible; when the shakes and nausea set in, he made a point to be on hand to chat with Hojo, to try and take his mind off things.


Gin, apparently, was both a smoker and a big music guy – and so Tamaki had made sure that he always had a pack or two of Britannian cigarettes with real tobacco around on the weekends to reward the man for his hard work, plus tips about which barterers had caches of CDs available in the trade goods.


Inuyama was practically a belly on legs, with a particular love for meat, a luxury good in Shinjuku. Tamaki had put in a special request with Inoue for an extra two rations of meat for the man, and soon Nagata had arrived with a whole box of cheap jerky in a variety of flavors. Apparently, whatever flavors Inuyama hadn't liked he'd turned around into trade goods to get the smuggled bottle to buy his lady's affections.


Hina's requests, once Tamaki had taken her aside, had been somewhat heartbreaking in their simplicity, yet eminently practical. Tampons, sanitary pads, a safety razor, aspirin, and if possible, birth control pills had been all she'd initially asked for. Tamaki, remembering how sunken the four's cheeks had been when they'd slunk into the Rising Sun's meeting hall, didn't rib her for asking for so little; instead, he simply told her that all but the last request were freely available from the Rising Sun's stocks, thanks to Tanya and Inoue, and that the last would be available as soon as a cheap and reliable supplier could be found. Hina hadn't responded to that information at the time beyond a simple "I see", but after verifying that Tamaki had told the truth, and after drawing a ration of female hygiene and relief products from Inoue, Hina had returned, thanked him, and put in a request for a warm coat, fresh vegetables, and for the Rising Sun to deliver a take-out box for a family of four to the apartment of a single mother and her three children slightly north of their usual area of operations. Inoue had assured him that none of the requests had been hard to meet, and soon green bell peppers and unripened tomatoes joined the inventory of regular shipments into Shinjuku.


Of course, all of the peppers and cigarettes in the world paled in comparison to the experience of risking your lives side by side, and coming out laughing and smiling on the other side. As Naoto had begun his shadowy campaign of violence against the gangs, Tamaki had begged his boss for the chance to bring his trainees along for their first operation as part of the Organization. After Tamaki agreed to take full responsibility for their actions, Naoto had gladly welcomed them into his systematic destruction of the gang that had tried to shake down the Rising Sun. Hojo, once a member of the Kokuryu-kai and thus privy to the locations of all the old safehouses being used by the splinter gang, had been particularly valuable, but all four had enthusiastically thrown themselves into the slaughter of their former comrades.


Starting from quiet knifings of unwary or isolated gangsters, the four had been led by Tamaki through a gauntlet of missions handed down from the leading trio, culminating in the glorious night Tamaki had fired a shoulder-mounted missile into a warehouse turned meth lab. The incredible explosion and the chemically fueled flames still burnt in his mind when he thought about the night – the knightmare in the station Tanya had blown up aside, Tamaki didn't know if he'd ever seen anything quite as beautiful as the roaring blaze he'd caused. It had been an intense three weeks of near constant activity, training with his new detachment as they waited for the next mission, occasionally helping out Inoue and Tanya at the Rising Sun to help keep the recruits (and Tamaki, if he was being honest) anchored with the cause, with why they were fighting.


The only major sticking point in that time had been after the liberation of the gang's slave brothels a week prior. That particular job had been carried out by Naoto personally, with Souichiro and Chihiro's help, and Tamaki hadn't envied them the job; when Naoto had returned, eyes empty and bleak, followed by a line of women wrapped in bloody blankets shepherded by a grinning Chihiro, Tamaki already knew celebrating wasn't going to be in the cards. He didn't know what the women Naoto had brought back from the raid had endured, and frankly he didn't want to know either – but he was fairly sure that none of them would welcome the offer of a beer.


Tamaki had expected weeping, he'd expected uncomfortably degrees of decidedly unmanly emotion, and he'd expected to be asked to take the male contingent of his unit elsewhere to sleep for the night. He hadn't expected one of the women to suddenly scream "YOU!", pull a knife, and lunge at Gin, who had backpedaled away from his knife-wielding assailant while fumbling for the pistol belted to his waist. Tamaki had managed to move fast enough to grab Gin's arm before he actually got a shot off, while Chihiro had wrestled the knife away from the screaming woman who had persisted in her attempts to claw out Gin's eyes, nearly overwhelming the younger and fitter Chihiro.


Fortunately, Ohgi had been only steps behind Naoto's group, and between Naoto's demands that everybody stop immediately and Ohgi's calming, conciliatory words, the worst was averted. Tamaki had been sorely tempted to beat the shit out of all three of his male subordinates when he'd learned that they all knew what had been happening in those brothels, but the fact that none of them had been directly involved with that side of their gang's operations had stayed his hand. They had, however, been forced through the most rigorous three day training program Tamaki could whip up, as had Hina, since Tamaki didn't want to play favorites and she'd known damn well what was happening too and hadn't bothered to do anything about it.


That was all in the past now, though. Tamaki was confident in the abilities of his trainees, and confident in their attachment to the Organization and the camaraderie it represented, if not the nebulous goals Tanya and Naoto periodically alluded to. Which puts 'em in the same boat with me, I guess.


Tamaki thumped Inuyama one last time on the shoulders in celebration, before disentangling himself from the taller man and turning to Naoto. The leader of the cell had put away his cigarette and had been watching the back and forth between Tamaki and his men with an almost cold expression of disinterested weariness, but he perked up when Tamaki looked back his way. Wonder how well he's sleeping these days? Tamaki had helped Naoto with some of his more sticky jobs, and was perfectly content to leave all that fucked up shit to Naoto, if only so he didn't have to drink himself to sleep every night. Better yet, leave that crap up tah Chihiro, that crazy bitch.


Out loud, Tamaki said "We're ready to rock and roll, Boss!" He didn't have to fake the confidence – this was a Tanya plan, so it was going to be solid, and he was confident in the men going into Brittown with him. They're never gonna know what hit 'em! "Say the word, and we can head to the checkpoint!"


Naoto lifted a single skeptical eyebrow, casting a look over Gin, who was shrugging into his coat, and Inuyama, who was screwing around with his goddamned knife again. "If you say so. Let's get gone."


---------


By the time Tamaki and the rest of the small team of infiltrators got to the checkpoint into the Britannian Concession, work passes and lunchboxes in hand, it was almost six at night and the sun had vanished beyond the horizon two hours earlier. The group joined the long queue of shivering Eleven workers waiting for their chance to pick up night shift work in the Tokyo Settlement, a nearly palpable miasma of depressed resignation thick in the air as the line slowly shuffled forwards. The guards appeared equally unhappy, from what Tamaki could make out through the darkness and the milling crowd. The few inspections they bothered with were almost perfunctory, and while they of course collected the usual "administration fees", none of the Britannians on duty appeared to have the energy to aggressively shake down any of the hapless Elevens. Wonder who they pissed off to get assigned to stand out in the cold on Christmas Eve?


Despite the complete lack of enthusiasm exhibited by the guards, Tamaki knew that the checkpoint represented the first major point of failure in the operation. If those bastards think we've got some extra cash somewhere, or just wanna screw with us... Best case scenario, they'd just be turned back and not allowed to enter the Concession, aborting the mission. Worst case, the guards would realize they were trying to smuggle weapons into the Settlement, and then they'd be arrested, interrogated, and shot. Wish I'd taken the time to make sure Inuyama could walk straight with the knife... Dammit... Tamaki exhaled, and forced himself to calm down. It was too late to do anything now, and getting all agitated would mark him out as suspicious. Deliberately, Tamaki let his shoulders slump and buried his hands in his pockets, and tried to think about anything but the night's work ahead.


A tense half an hour later, Tamaki dutifully handed over his work pass for stamping, a few crumpled bills pressed against the bottom just like always. The guard, faceless as always behind the rebreather and the mirrored visor of his helmet, barely glanced at either his face or his pass, apathetically thumping the barely inked stamp down on the card stock of the pass. With a muttered "thanks", Tamaki reclaimed the pass and shuffled his way into the Britannian Concession, joining Naoto on a street corner a block away.


Stamping their booted feet to keep the cold out, the two waited in silence as first Gin, and then Inuyama made their way through the checkpoint. To Tamaki's relief, Inuyama's slightly stiff gait apparently hadn't stood out as remarkable in a crowd of cold, malnourished laborers. Plus, the guards were probably wishin' they were comin' with us to the entertainment zone instead of hangin' around the ghetto. Hah! Tamaki smiled as Inuyama trudged his way over, and considered sharing his insight with Naoto. A look over at his boss's blank expression dissuaded him. Naoto's got his game face on – probably not in the mood for joshin' around. He's gotten pretty serious lately, ever since he and Chihiro had started hackin' people apart...


As soon as Inuyama joined them on the corner, Naoto turned and started walking, heading southeast along with most of the other Eleven men allowed into the Concession, Tamaki close on his heels and the other two men tagging along behind. The loose string of workers were headed for what had once been the Ginza District; though the area had been redeveloped and filled with the same ugly Britannian architecture as the rest of the Tokyo Settlement, the old Ginza had retained its mercantile character. At this fever pitch of the holiday season, it was a safe bet that the many shops and restaurants would need extra hands to deal with the horde of last minute shoppers – not in the front of house, of course, not for the Elevens, but in the stockrooms and the kitchens where their non-Britannian features wouldn't offend any paying customer. The small knot of Shinjuku fighters blended into the shambling crowd, hunkering down into their thin jackets as best they could against the heat-leeching wind, just like every other man present. The women, by and large, had taken a different turn after passing through the checkpoint, but it was far too early in the night to be seen anywhere near that side of town.


As Tamaki trudged down the street, he reflected on how strangely nostalgic it was to return to this particular corner of the Britannian Concession. During the first months of the Cell's existence, their piddling "missions" had more often than not been carried out in this general area. In fact, the warehouse where he'd offed that fat idiot of a security guard was only about half a kilometer away from his current location. First time I'd killed... Fucker shouldn't have surprised me like that. What kinda idiot decides to risk their life for someone else's inventory, huh?


The area south of the old Chuo Ward and west of the Ginza was a mixed-use area, where the warehouses holding stock for the glitzy shopping districts and refined outlets rubbed shoulders with the homes of middle-class Britannians and the scattered estates of minor nobility, with small strip malls and convenient grocery stores dotted throughout. The center of the area was the ruined husk of the Kasumigaseki Station, completely collapsed after the Britannian aerial bombardment that had left the nearby Tokyo Metropolitan Police Headquarters a gutted shell. During the redevelopment of the area, the remnants of the old police headquarters had been unceremoniously shoveled into the open maw where the station's roof and the nearby tunnels had caved in, thereby avoiding the cost of hauling away the rubble or filling the gaping hole with gravel.


Tamaki vaguely remembered that there had been a resistance cell operating out of the area, living in the old tunnels and emerging by night to loot whatever they could and raise hell. That's where Naoto got that sack of hand grenades, right? Now that he thought about it, Tamaki realized he hadn't heard any mention of the Kasumigaseki Resistance Cell for months. Probably means they're okay. If the Brits had caught a legit group of rebels, they'd have been trumptin' about it all day every day. Hope they're still fighting the good fight somewhere. Of course, it was entirely possible that the tunnel they had laired up in had just collapsed from the lack of maintenance and entombed the whole lot in concrete and steel. Fuck, I hope not. That's a horrible way to go.


Forty minutes and a two mile walk later, Tamaki and his merry band found themselves in the desolate no man's land around the ruined Tokyo Tower. The colossal heap of twisted girders and gutted hopes was red with rust and creaked with each errant gust, moaning like a man dying from a gut wound. To Tamaki, Tokyo-born and bred, the Tower was an almost tangible symbol of all that had happened to the city of his birth and her people. Broken, pillaged, and left in squalor, the broken Tower screamed its agony to all that would hear. The fact that the Brits haven't paved it over like they did the Imperial Palace has gotta be intentional. Just another way of rubbin' everythin' in our faces. The bastards. It was fitting that the Tower, and the boarded up station below it, would shelter her sons before they set out on their Tanya-appointed task, and afterwards as they hid from vengeful eyes.


Even by the usual standards of the desolate grave of Tokyo's pride, the place was deserted. Far away, a maglev train traversed the elevated rail, but to Tamaki the faint whistling of the wind suddenly took on a selpulcral air. He shivered, the chill unrelated to the midwinter night. The aching heart of Tokyo was empty, without even the desperate bustle of Shinjuku to provide traces of life and light. This was a dead city, a place abandoned by the living, and yet Tamaki was certain that under every pile of shattered cement and broken brick were human bones. The four men, by unspoken consensus, picked up their pace, lightly jogging through the necropolis, looking for the faded signs directing long-gone foot traffic to the nearest subway station. A few minutes of searching later, and the group stood before the rotted plywood sheets screwed into place over an entrance to Kamiyacho Station.


Tamaki gestured at Inuyama, who nodded and drew his knife and started gradually easing the first screw free of the pulpy wood. Gin followed suit, working on the screw on the opposite side of the board, and a minute later Tamaki and Naoto filed into the exposed entrance to the tunnel, damp air rushing up into their faces until Inuyama carefully pulled the board over the hole after them, propping it back into its former position.


Once the board was back in place, sheltering the group from any spectacularly out of place Britannian who happened to be spending Christmas Eve in the most wretched part of Tokyo outside of the Ghetto, Tamaki let himself relax a bit. Stretching and yawning, he unclipped the miniature flashlight from the inside of his arm and clicked it on, letting the light trace over the textured yellow rubber strips at the edge of the steps leading downwards to a plug of rubble and soil blocking access to the station itself, or the tunnels even further down below the surface. A horrible way to go...


"Well," Naoto broke the silence as all four stared at the collapse, the still sharp edges of the concrete shards indicating that the stairway had been passable until recently. "It's not as luxurious as I'd hoped, but I guess this is where we're going to be changing, gentlemen. Get changed, and we'll start reviewing."


Soon, all four men were industriously tearing the stitches out of their coats, freeing the smuggled contraband. Tamaki vaguely regretted tearing out the stitches that he himself had carefully made the night before, but that regret wasn't what caused his shoulders to shake in the near dark of the collapsed staircase. No, it was all he could to do to keep up his professional, on the job facade, and suppress a laugh of mingled nervous anxiety and hilarity at the memory of Naoto prostrate on all fours, begging an eleven year old to help him after he'd somehow managed to sew the sleeves of his coat together. Fuckin' rich boy's probably always had maids fer that kinda work. Tamaki knew the internal mockery wasn't true in the slightest, but that didn't matter in the face of comedy, especially when he wasn't stupid enough or petty enough to share the joke with men who hadn't known Naoto for years. 'Sides, it's all in the name of keepin' my morale up. ...Fuck, did the roof just creek? I really hope not.


Soon, Tamaki found himself checking over Inuyama and Gin, making sure their Honorary Britannian uniforms were as straight and crisp as possible, before Gin returned the favor. The sergeant's chevrons sewn onto his shoulder and chest were the only difference between his uniform and theirs, and Tamaki had carefully slicked his sometimes uncontrollable hair down before leaving Shinjuku that evening so the side cap would sit squarely on his head. Gin and Inuyama's hair was still quite a bit on the short side for Britannian soldiers, but hopefully their carefully placed caps would draw attention away from that minor detail. After getting the nod from Gin, Tamaki turned to Naoto and carefully ran his penlight over his boss, and unsurprisingly found him in perfect order, looking alarmingly comfortable and at ease in the uniform of a Britannian officer. The illusion of Britannian perfection was somewhat weakened by the loose tie and open collar of his shirt, and further undermined by the wink Naoto shot his way. Tamaki couldn't help but smile at the exaggerated look of aristocratic disdain on his friend's face, before the pseudo-professional mask cracked entirely and the boyish smile so rare in past weeks flashed across Naoto's face.


"It's finally the time, eh, Tamaki? We're finally doing it! We're finally going after some Brit bastards ourselves – just like you always wanted!" The exuberant tone and the guileless blue eyes were a sharp contrast to the violence to come, but Tamaki couldn't help the answering grin creeping across his face. It's good to see the old Naoto back – gloomy Naoto's way too boring.


"Fuck yeah, bro! We're gonna show 'em we mean business! Wanna bet we each bag a Purist sonnuvabitch before the night's over?" Tamaki knew that he should be maintaining professional discipline in front of his men, but, fuck it. They'd be squatting in this stinking wet tunnel for an hour and a half practicing basic Britannian commands and waiting for the bastards enjoying themselves in the whorehouses to get nice and drunk, at least he could get a laugh or two before he subjected himself to language lessons!


Naoto laughed and patted Tamaki on the shoulder. "You've gotta raise your game, Tamaki – we just need to get the ball rolling, and the Purists will do way more damage to their own side than we would if we just spent the whole night shanking people."


Tamaki rolled his eyes in fond exasperation, and adopted a wheedling tone "But where's the fun in that? I wanna show those Brit bastards this Japanese boy's got guts, one on one, man on man!"


Naoto raised a skeptical eyebrow, nearly invisible in the dark of the tunnel. "The way you showed Tanya? She did nearly splatter your guts across the hideout – I suppose that would've proved the point once and for all!"


This time, Tamaki didn't have to feign a whine. "Ah, c'mon! That was an honest mistake! And that girl's terrifying – I bet she'd eat a Knightmare by herself, if her mouth was just a bit wider!"


"Wait, what?!" Inuyama burst into the conversation. A step behind him, Gin looked on at the conversation with interest. "You fought Tanya, bro? And you're still alive? How the fuck did that happen?!"


With rising horror, Tamaki turned towards the two wolves in the shape of men that lurked beyond the small circle of light, dreading the ribbing he was about to receive. He'd completely forgotten that they hadn't been there back in the day to watch him get totally schooled by a scrawny kid. Worse still, judging by the shit-eating grin on Naoto's face, he was completely willing to tell the story in full if Tamaki stepped away from the challenge. Biting the bullet, Tamaki sighed and beckoned the two over as he sat down, placing the work overall between his behind and the damp concrete step, desperately trying to find some way to spin the story so he didn't come off as quite such an idiot. If you're gonna collapse, roof, now would be a good time.


"Okay, so, no shit, there I was..."


---------


An hour and a half of careful coaching by Naoto later, and Tamaki felt more or less confident in his ability to to dutifully nod and say "yes sir" with only the faintest trace of a Japanese accent. Together with Gin and Inuyama, he had also gone over the command phrases for when it was time to run. It was of vital importance that every word uttered by the team during the actual engagement be in Britannian – any Japanese might direct suspicions back towards the Eleven population, and to Shinjuku.


As Tamaki checked the time on his cheap burner phone one last time, Naoto pulled out a flask of homebrew and carefully splashed it over the lapels of his jacket and on the front of his shirt, before wetting his palm with the liquor and rubbing it into the stubble on his cheeks and chin. Then, he took a small mouthful of the liquid and rinsed it through his teeth, wincing at the burn, before spitting it out in the direction of the cave in. Between the off-kilter hat on dyed blonde hair, the open collar, the loosened tie, and the reek of alcohol, Naoto looked every inch the part of a dissolute Britannian junior officer drinking away the shame of the recent demotion betrayed by his freshly stitched lieutenant's bar.


"Ready to go, everyone?" Naoto's voice was serious, as he looked from man to man. Tamaki mutely nodded, the anxiety and excitement starting to well back up in his gut now that the time had finally come. After a final round of nods all around, Tamaki carefully nudged the sheet of plywood aside and poked his head out of the station's mouth. After the hour and a half in the darkness of the station staircase, the outside world seemed bright under the illumination of the lights of the far away core of the Tokyo Settlement and the moon high above. Finding the broken pavement of the street just as deserted as it had been when they'd arrived, the group filed out of the station, Gin carefully propping the plywood sheet back into place. As soon as the sheet was back in place, Tamaki turned and followed Naoto, hearing Gin and Inuyama fall in behind him. The target was at least a half an hour away by foot, and they were now very much on the clock.


Unlike the graveside of the rotting Tokyo Tower, the entertainment zone positively thrummed with activity. The streets heaved with drunken soldiers, government functionaries, and other representatives of the Britannian occupation, all drunkenly yelling, bellowing, and pushing in a scrum of consumption fueled by lust. Mixed into the crowd of eager customers were the inevitable followers, drawn by money so eager to be spent it was practically burning its way out of pockets and purses: Sausage salesmen did a brisk business behind sizzling carts on every corner, bouncers loomed in doorways of bars and brothels, and plenty of women and a handful of men of varying degrees of attractiveness in their skimpy outfits flitted and fluttered between knots of drunks, offering their wares and attempting to draw eager takers back to whichever house they were working out of.


As the group entered the entertainment zone, Naoto's gait morphed from the firm and direct strides he'd taken on the walk to this little slice of soldier's heaven, instead rolling his steps and swaying side to side. The change was gradual, so it didn't jar any observant watcher, but by the time they'd made their way past the first block of late-night takeout joints and convenience stores, Naoto looked just as drunk as almost every other man on the street to Tamaki's eyes. Stopping at a sausage cart, Naoto ordered in slurred and near incomprehensible Britannian before shoving a wad of cash into the hapless Honorary Britannian salesman's hand in exchange for four sausages in buns. As Tamaki waited for his turn with the condiment tray, Naoto squeezed the mustard bottle hard enough for the top to pop off entirely, dumping most of the contents onto his sausage and spraying mustard over the front of his uniform coat. Another bout of loud, slurred Britannian later, this one an angry tirade full of words Tamaki could recognize as profanity, Naoto had a second free sausage in hand and was staggering away from the cart, still streaked with yellow mustard. Playing the role of the nurse-maiding orderly, Tamaki attempted to daub at the condiment stain whenever Naoto staggered his way and fought down the urge to grin at the sullen stream of Britannian curses coming from his friend. Bastard missed his calling as an actor! Well, at least he got us some dinner.


As the small group of disguised resistance fighters moved deeper into the entertainment zone, the quality of the facades facing onto the streets improved. Bar windows were lined in fine, dark wood, undoubtedly concealing steel shutters and armored doors, the brothels became gilded enough to earn the description of bordellos, and most importantly, the number of men and women in the crowd wearing expensive finery increased the further Naoto led them into the zone. Hell, even the prostitutes are wearin' nicer panties! That's straight-up lingerie now – and that's just what the ones workin' outside are wearin'!


The group turned a corner, and Tamaki saw an illuminated sign featuring a single stocking-clad leg, the smooth white garment held up by a very elaborate, extremely lacy garter. That must be the target! The building the sign was attached to was about a hundred yards down the block, and though the crowd was just as thick as ever, Tamaki could see a constant stream of well-dressed young men entering and exiting through the wide-open wooden doors; even better, no obvious bouncers were in sight, reducing the chance of anybody getting in the way of the imminent fight.


Naoto had clearly seen the sign too; lowering his shoulders and picking up speed, the young half-breed bulled his way into the crowd, spitting a constant stream of slurred curses as he shoulder-checked one bystander after another out of the way, Tamaki and his two men picking up speed to follow Naoto through the gap in the crowd he'd cleaved. Ahead, a pair of visibly inebriated young men staggered down the trio of short stairs leading to the Lacy Garter's front door, laughing and swaying as they supported each other with friendly arms cast around shoulders. Judging by the short, tight, heavily brocaded jackets with long tails they sported, plus the tight trousers and knee-high boots, they were unquestionably nobles – and since they'd just emerged from a bordello owned by a Purist family, Tamaki had no doubt that these two fit the target profile exactly.


Fuckin' finally! The blood began to pound in Tamaki's ears, and he had to remind himself to stay cool and collected. It wasn't his role to get the party started, and the night's events were going to be an exercise in control, the attack a precise strike followed by a near immediate disengagement. But.. I thought it'd never come... But today's the day to get some fuckin' revenge! Dad? I'm sendin' some company your way t'night!


Ahead, the two probable-Purists had reached the sidewalk. Tamaki could see they were talking, but over the noise of the street and the hammering pulse in his head, he couldn't make anything out. Fuckin' Brits are probably just braggin' about how good they think they were in bed... Hope yah enjoyed it while it lasted, you murderin' pieces of shit! The world tunneled around Tamaki as he picked up speed, trying to maintain Naoto's acceleration, cries of irritation and outrage dopplering out behind the group as Gin and Inuyama forced their way through the crowd behind him. The mood's already startin' to turn ugly... Perfect.


Naoto heaved his way down the street, and just as the Purists turned towards the oncoming apparent drunk, Naoto dropped his center of gravity and slammed into the nearest Purist, shoulder ramming into the center of the man's chest. The other noble cried out in pain as his right arm, still slung around his friend's shoulder, was painfully forced back in its socket as his inebriated friend staggered backwards, frantically trying to regain his balance.


Tamaki came to a stop a few feet away from the two Purists, and gestured for Inuyama and Gin to fan out to the left, into the crowded street and around the flank of the targets. As the two slipped off to the side, Naoto turned on his heel towards the staggering Purist and began yelling, stepping closer and getting into the slightly shorter man's space. The other Purist tried to stabilize the first, grabbing onto his shoulder as he leaned back, away from the spittle flying from Naoto's mouth and the overpowering stench of hard liquor wafting off Naoto's uniform.


Tamaki didn't have a great understanding of Britannian, but between all the planning sessions and the rehersals, he'd picked up enough vocabulary to understand when Naoto told the Purists to "Get the fuck outta the way! You Purist ducks already got your shrimp dicks milked, so make room for me and my boys!", gesturing towards Tamaki, who was doing his best to look as sober and stoic as possible and desperately hoping that Gin and Inuyama were doing the same.


While the Purists had at first looked stunned to suddenly be confronted by an irate drunkard they almost certainly outranked, the initial confusion had rapidly turned to barely suppressed anger. Fists clenched, they had admirably kept their anger under control, presumably because Naoto was clearly spoiling for a fight, and had tried to calm the situation down. Tamaki hadn't been able to understand the exact words, but he doubted the attempt at deescalation would have worked regardless – the contempt in their tone was obvious. But, as Naoto continued the barrage of insults, the two seemed like they were actually going to force Naoto to throw the first punch, which would have ruined the broader plan of riling up the crowd against the Purists.


Just as Tanya predicted, however, the implication that the intoxicated fool yelling at them was about to lead a unit of Honorary Britannians into a brothel specializing in Britannian prostitutes in particular was the one thing that the Purists couldn't stop themselves from reacting, and the man Naoto had shoved took the bait and started yelling back just as angrily and stepping almost chest-to-chest with Naoto.


"Oh, shut the fuck up, you noble twat! They're Honorary Britannians, so they're just as good as any other fucking Britannian here – better than some, since they can actually please a woman! Those girls won't have to fake their moans with my boys, y'hear?" Tamaki was impressed – between Naoto's assertion and the shit-faced grin he wore, the Purists looked nearly apoplectic, cheeks red and incoherent half-syllables choked out into the cold night air.


Taking a quick look around, Tamaki saw that the little confrontation, noisy even by the standards of the entertainment zone crowd, had not gone unnoticed. A ring of men and women, of whom maybe thirty percent looked wealthy enough to be nobles of some kind and thus Purists, had begun to form. The ring surrounded a small clearing in the crowd maybe ten feet wide, with the two Purists and Naoto near the center and Tamaki right near the edge. From the corner of his eye, Tamaki saw Gin standing in the ring, almost directly behind the Purists, while Inuyama was one row back and to their right. With Naoto in front of them and Tamaki to their left, the pair were surrounded, though they hadn't realized that quite yet.


The more belligerent of the two Purists once again took the bait, although it was hard to hear what he was saying over the rising murmur of the crowd as more and more people converged on the ring. The crowd, however, did understand whatever the drunken lord had spewed out in response, and the murmurs from the non-Purist soldiers was turning increasingly ugly, while the Purists were cheering on their comrade. Which means the idiot probably said somethin' about how the regulars can't do shit, or how they spend all their time with whores instead of doing anythin' useful. Fuck, it's just like Tanya said it'd be!


Before the Purist could finish whatever verbal riposte he'd attempted, Naoto started shouting. Tamaki knew the gist of the comeback. "Bullshit! You Purist bastards just run around doing whatever you want, stirring up shit, and then you swan off to your fancy clubs and stuff your piggy faces! And who the fuck cleans up your mess? We do! We do all the hard work, we do the dangerous stuff, and you bastards take all the credit!"


This time, the non-noble Britannians cheered, their drunken enthusiasm nearly drowning out the heckling from the equally drunken Purists. Across the ring, Tamaki saw Inuyama move, and suddenly the Purist in front of him in the Ring itself fell forward and to the side, running into a regular soldier and trying to grab onto him for balance. The drunken soldier turned with a snarl, but before Tamaki could see what happened next, the Purist pushing up against Naoto lost his temper and tried to shove him.


The taller, stronger, and secretly sober Naoto swayed back with the shove, before reciprocating, shoving the drunken and enraged Purist from the shoulders instead of the chest, sending the man sprawling. Tamaki distinctly heard the sound of the man's head bouncing off the curb, but by that point the chaos had already begun. The guy's friend swung at Naoto, who ducked the wild haymaker and shoved the man back as well. Unlike his friend, the second Purist stayed on his feet, staggering backwards into the ring of bodies behind him, Naoto close on his heels. As the second Purist fell back onto the arms of one of his comrades in arms, Gin stepped backwards, getting around behind the pair just as Naoto threw a straight right, missing his target but catching the other Purist in the nose.


Across the ring, the Purist Inuyama had shoved took a punch from the soldier he'd fallen on, who had apparently interpreted the fall as an attempt to shove him and had sunk his fist into the other Britannian's gut in retaliation. That Purist had friends too, though, and the soldier was ineffectually trying to push his way back into the crowd, away from the two Purists trying to grab him. One of the Purists suddenly twisted in pain as Inuyama slammed a punch into his kidney, giving one of the soldier's friends the opportunity to jump in and grab for the Purist's face as he turned.


At that point, the ring and the crowd both dissolved into a melee of overlapping brawls. Most of the fighting was between middle- to lower-class Britannians mostly in casual garb – though a few were still in uniform – and more richly dressed middle- to upper-class Britannians, but Tamaki could already see several scrums of men who all looked more or less the same to his Shinjuku eyes. Looks like lotsa scores are gonna be settled tonight. Tamaki caught Inuyama's eye and jerked his head towards Naoto, and Inuyama nodded and began cutting his way through the heaving, brawling mass.


Tamaki, for his part, rushed forwards towards the first Purist, who after a few seconds of apparent unconsciousness appeared to be coming back around, trying to push off the ground. Tamaki bent down and scooped the still-woozy man up into a firefighter carry, and started pushing his way towards the clear space between the wall of the Lacy Garter and the short staircase leading up to the door. "Make way! Wounded man coming through! Make way!" A small path through the fighters appeared and Tamaki hustled his way through to the open area.


"W-what happened...? My head hurts..." The man on his back moaned into Tamaki's ear, but Tamaki ignored him, and instead of responding carefully lowered him to the ground. As he bent down, he carefully put the man in the recovery position, kneeling beside him and rolling him onto his side, tuning out the slurred complaints. He's got a concussion at least, for sure.


Then, as he bent over the downed man, making a production of propping up his back, Tamaki lifted the Purist's jacket away from his back with one hand as he quickly rammed his hand down into his own pants and pulled out his knife, nearly cutting himself with the wickedly sharpened blade as the pressure from the belt turned the hilt in his hand. Before anyone could see what he was up to, Tamaki quickly stabbed the man twice in the back, aiming for the upper center of his back. The blade rasped against bone, and then as Tamaki pressed down firmly with as much weight as he could muster without tottering forwards in the second stab, he felt something give with a wet snap. Twisting the knife free of his "patient", Tamaki quickly wiped the blade on the interior of the man's jacket before pulling the tailored garment back down over the wound. Tamaki was sure that the gurgling would have made the man's already slurred speech nearly incomprehensible to someone who could actually speak Britannian, but he was content with the indication that he'd gotten at least one lung with his knife.


Tamaki manipulated the dying man's arms and legs so he would remain on his side, hopefully concealing the blood likely pooling under him until he and his comrades were well away, and got back up on his feet, tucking the knife against the inside of his forearm. As he turned, a momentary gap opened up in the crowd. Through the gap, Tamaki saw Naoto shove an apparent Purist backward into Inuyama and Gin's arms. Inuyama grabbed the man's left arm, Gin his right, and as Inuyama grabbed the man's shoulder length hair and pulled his head back, Gin's gloved hand flew across his throat, a wide red grin following in his wake. Below their feet, Tamaki thought he could make out another figure in bloodied brocade lying beneath their feet, before the crowd heaved again, closing the gap.


A moment later, screams of horror began to resound through the crowd as somebody suddenly noticed one of the bloody bodies, and the earlier violence abruptly escalated as many more knives suddenly appeared from hidden sheathes, along with hurriedly broken bottles. Over the press of the crowd, Tamaki could see Naoto's dyed blond hair, now minus the peaked officer's cap, moving with impressive speed through the crowd, followed by at least one head with a folding garrison cap. It's bugout time, for sure!


Tamaki started running, heading in the same southern direction Naoto had started to move. Since he was already near the edge of the mob, it was easy to break free and move. Naoto's longer legs had given him some advantage, and he broke free of the crowd a second later, Inuyama and Gin right behind him. Gin had already peeled off his bloody glove, though the right arm of his jacket was dripping and dark, and Naoto was furiously wiping away the splattered arterial blood from his face, not missing a pace as he continued to run. Tamaki fell into step, quickly shoving his knife through his belt, taking care not to stab himself in the thigh as he did so.


Behind them, the screams of terror had already turned to howls of rage intermingled with pained cries. To Tamaki's amusement, though some people (including the sausage salesman) were following their lead and hurriedly getting as far from the area as possible, the yells and screams seemed to be attracting every wannabe belligerent in the area. Men and women, drawn by voyeurism, their own desire to end a night of fun by breaking someone's teeth, or summoned by cries for reinforcements, streamed past and in true Britannian fashion hurled themselves into the fight, seemingly without caring what the fight was about or how it had started.


Tamaki wrenched his eyes away from a gang of seven or eight Britannians in the uniform of the Royal Marines, who were making a beeline back the way he had come with sleeves rolled up and an unmistakable expression of anticipatory relish. Forget about the damned Brits, you've got running to do! In a few minutes, he and his comrades would split up and make their separate ways back to the husk of Kamiyacho Station. Once they all got back, they'd have four hours or so to change back into their worker outfits, get cleaned up, and wait before heading back into Shinjuku. Tamaki would have liked to linger around the fight a bit longer – after all, it wasn't every day you got the pleasure of watching Brits beat the shit out of each other – but they'd done what they came for, and if he got caught after the job was done because he was rubbernecking, Tanya would never let him hear the end of it, if she didn't kill him herself.


Woulda been nice to see, though. But, hey, at least two of those Purist fucks were definitely dead, probably three – that's a hell of a nice Christmas gift, right? Tamaki grinned as he ran into traffic, dodging around a car screeching to a halt. This was what he'd signed up for, at long last! After the attitude adjustment from Tanya, the volunteer work didn't seem useless, but it was kinda boring. Bringing a little taste of hell to the Brits, though, especially the night before one of their big stupid holidays? Merry Christmas, Dad, wherever the hell yah are. Hope I made yeh proud, for once.


---------


Private First Class Suzaku Kururugi, lately of His Imperial Majesty's 32nd Honorary Britannian Legion, 1st Brigade, 3rd Regiment, 1st Battalion, 2nd Company, stared at the charred thing chained to the stop sign, and felt the world sway under his feet. The limbs had been mostly burnt away, but the thighs and upper arms remained; in fact, it was thanks to these remaining appendages that the corpse still hung from the chains padlocked to the stop sign, the cherry red paint blistered and peeled yet still visible between the spread stumps. Suzaku didn't know the man chained to the stop sign personally: He'd never met the fellow, didn't know his name or whether or not he had a family that would miss him. He did, however, know exactly what that man sounded like when he had screamed from the depths of horror and pain, pleading for mercy, for help, for someone to do something.


Nobody had, Suzaku included. Nobody had intervened in the slow torture and lynching of the man, nor of the other two Honorary Britannians who dangled from traffic signs outside the 2nd Chuo Ward Outpost, only half a mile from the checkpoint into the Shinjuku Ghetto. And now, at one o'clock in the afternoon on Christmas Day, the curfew on the barracks had finally been lifted for Suzaku and his fire team, so they could clean up the rubbish from the previous night's "incident", including the three bodies.


It had all come as a complete surprise to Suzaku and the other members of the 3rd Regiment billeted at the Outpost. When he had gone to sleep at around ten the previous night, everything had been calm and tranquil; most of his fellow Honorary Britannians had been enthusiastic about the day off they'd been promised the following day, although Suzaku had volunteered to remain on duty as part of the skeleton duty force. He didn't have any friends or family to spend the day with, and the extra pay seemed like the better option. Suzaku had slept as restlessly as always, the unquiet ghosts of his past tormenting him as they did most nights. When he'd woken up to the sounds of gunshots, angry yelling, and hundreds of pairs of feet converging on his location, Suzaku had at first thought he was still dreaming.


The scuttlebutt was that the instigating event that had led to everything else was a fight that had turned nasty in one of the entertainment zones scattered around Tokyo. At least a hundred men from various units had been arrested for a variety of crimes when the military police, supported by the Knight Police, had finally arrived on the scene to break up the growing brawl. Almost as soon as the police had arrived and begun to beat the crowd of unruly soldiers back into line, the Purists on hand – none of whom, Suzaku was sure, had been arrested – had immediately started yelling about their "fallen brothers".


One of the dead Purists had been killed by a bottle-wielding marine who had slammed a mostly-full bottle of bourbon into the man's temple with enough force to cause internal bleeding; the guilty party had been quickly found and was sitting in the cells under the Viceroy's Palace. The other three Purists, on the other hand, had been knifed to death, and the Purists had immediately pinned the blame on Honorary Britannian soldiers. Allegedly, some Honorary Britannian soldiers had been seen fleeing the scene, but Suzaku highly doubted that story. As far as he knew, all Honorary Britannian units had a strict curfew, and as tenuous as the Honorary Britannian status was, Suzaku doubted that any of his comrades would have chosen to flaunt the rules by going out for a night on the town.


Regardless, whether or not the Purists had been killed by Honorary Britannian soldiers, the reprisals had come almost immediately. Before the sun had even risen, disorganized mobs of Purists and other Britannians had swept through the Chiyo, Chuo, and Ginza Districts, grabbing every Honorary Britannian soldier unlucky or stupid enough to be outside their barracks, including men unfortunate enough to be assigned to guard duty outside the fortified walls of the various outposts or assigned to policing the Honorary Britannian neighborhoods. Nobody in Suzaku's unit had any clue how many had died last night, and the news was second or third hand at best, but Suzaku was inclined to believe the worst, considering what had happened next.


Once the mob had butchered their first batch of scapegoats, the Purists had turned on the barracks housing the various Honorary Britannian units distributed across the city. Here, at least, at the 2nd Chuo Outpost, the Britannian officers commanding Suzaku's unit had confronted the mob through barred gates, telling them that the unit was under lockdown and nobody was allowed onto or off the installation. The crowd had heeded the Britannian voice of authority, and hadn't entered the base's grounds, to Suzaku's fervent relief; the unlucky gate guards, stuck on the other side of the hastily shut gates, weren't so lucky. Unarmed as all Honorary Britannians were required to be, in uniform or not, the three men on duty too slow to escape back inside had been hauled out of the guard shack and into the street.


Suzaku had woken at five thirty when the mob had first arrived, and like the other four men of his fire team he'd watched at the window with growing apprehension as the gates slammed shut and as Major Humphrey, who commanded the outpost's two companies, yelled back at the mob through the steel slats. For a moment, when it seemed like reason and order had won, when it seemed like the system had ruled the day once more, and that peace would prevail over violence, Suzaku had relaxed. It's good to see that some Britannians really do believe in their duty – the system truly can be reformed from within with the help of good men like the Major!


That moment of contentment, of a renewed sense of surety and confidence in his life's choices, had been brief. The mob, denied the opportunity to destroy the entire garrison in an orgy of slaughter, had instead opted to vent their bloodlust on the three unfortunates they had seized. They had started with clubs and knives; they had soon moved on to blowtorches looted from a machine shop nearby. The major hadn't even stayed by the gate to watch. As soon as the mob had turned inwards on its captives and ceased attempting to breach the walls, he had turned his back and returned to his quarters.


Suzaku had to be physically restrained by his squadmates. As soon as the first screams had risen above the ugly din outside the gate, he had gone for the door. He had to do something – anything! – to help the poor men, his comrades, suffering outside. Before he had managed to even get out of his shared barracks room, much less out of the barracks, the corporal in charge of his fire team had grabbed him, and together with his squaddies had wrestled Suzaku down onto his bed and pinned his arms and legs. Suzaku had screamed at them to let go, pleaded for them to let him help, let him try to save the men suffering outside whose screams he could not shut out no matter how much he tried, but all was for naught. The corporal screamed back that the men were already dead, that there was nothing he could do for them, and that trying anything would just get them all killed.


And so, Suzaku had thrashed against his comrades and wept, unable to help, unable to escape the agonized screams coming through the closed window. The screaming had ended by seven o'clock, but Suzaku had seen the dancing light of flames reflected against the white ceiling of his barracks room, and remembered the scent of other burning Japanese. I joined up so I'd never have to smell that again! After the Conquest, after we surrendered, there was supposed to be peace, dammit! The Britannians won! We Honorary Britannians followed every rule they gave us! So... Why?! Why?! His comrades had finally let go of him, now that there was nothing Suzaku could possibly do, but he still lay on his bed, staring upwards at the reflected flames, asking himself why it was so hard for people to live together in peace.


By nine, a Knight Police Glasgow and a detachment of military police had come by and cleared off any remaining members of the mob with an admonition to "Return home to your families! It's Christmas Day, for God's sake – go home and enjoy your day!" The handful of Purists still present among the crowd of rubbernecking civilians had been told to return to their duty stations or their homes. Once the crowd had dispersed, the police had mostly left, leaving a token pair of military police behind to "maintain order" at the request of Major Humphrey. Not once during their stop had the police shown any signs of interest in the three dangling bodies, nor even remarked on the piles of charred garbage piled up around the base of each sign.


Hours later, the Honorary Britannians were still locked down, still huddling fearfully in their barracks. From his window, Suzaku had seen several groups of Britannian civilians taking pictures with the grotesque remains of three completely innocent Honorary Britannians sworn to the service of Emperor Charles and the Holy Britannian Empire. At least one group of children had even started trying to pull pieces off the dangling thighs of the man bound to the stop sign, but apparently that was where the police had decided to draw the line, and the children were sent away after one was smacked across the ear.


As the lunch hour had begun, Suzaku approached his platoon's lieutenant and requested permission to go out and take the bodies down. The lieutenant, a Britannian, had lost his usual sneer, and instead looked pale. His hands shook slightly, and at the mention of the bodies, he had looked physically ill. He had nodded vaguely, said something about running the request up to the Outpost's commander, and had left the cafeteria. Suzaku had joined his squad at their table, where they all sat in silence. Their lunches sat on their trays practically untouched; nobody felt much like eating. Nobody had opted for the meat option that day either.


Usually, Suzaku felt fairly isolated among his fellow Honorary Britannians; most of them had come from poor backgrounds, and had seen the Honorary Britannian option as a way to a better life, and his background as a member of an upper-class family before the Conquest marked him out as different. On top of that, most of his comrades were solely concerned with improving their own and their family's prospects, and cared little for the majority of their people, who were still considered mere Elevens by the Britannians. They hadn't taken his talk of reforming the system from the inside for the betterment of universal justice and their people when he'd first joined up well. Most days, any interaction Suzaku had with his comrades was professional at best, and always curt.


Today, Suzaku felt just as miserable as everybody else there. The corporal had even looked apologetic, once he'd waved the other members of the fire team off him. When he rejoined his squad at the table, instead of trying to find a spot somewhere to wedge himself into, two of the guys had moved out of his way, clearing a place for him. Suzaku couldn't find it in himself to wonder or care about the sudden level of newfound acceptance; all he could think about were three men screaming on pyres, a nearby airstrike shaking the plateau as he sat on a crate of MREs, the charred wood crumbling under the impact, "I swear... Suzaku, I swear! I'm going to obliterate Britannia!" was how little it all seemed to mean.


An hour later, Suzaku's fire team had finally been given permission to "tidy up" the street, and now here he was, staring into the blackened sockets of a man he had failed to save. Just another time I've been too late, done too little... What do I do? I just want to save my people... I want them to live in peace... We can't fight this... We'll all die... But... The visage, barely recognizable as human, was as inscrutable as any Buddha carved from stone. Suzaku knew he wouldn't find any answers printed across its flaking skin, no more than he would find answers in the dreams where his father came to visit him, but he just couldn't look away.


Behind him, Suzaku heard the sounds of brooms and shovels at work, as the other members of his fire team dumped the garbage from the burnpile around one of the other signs into a wheelbarrow. Suzaku had dimly noticed multiple empty cooking oil containers as he'd crossed the road from the barracks – likely, the mob had piled up anything even slightly combustible around each of the chained men, before raiding a local mini-mart and dumping every bit of oil they'd had in stock on the garbage and the men. The whole street reeked of an unholy mixture of burning garbage and overcooked pork. One of his squadmates suddenly lost an internal battle and started retching, dry heaving for lack of any lunch or breakfast to expel.


Suzaku felt cold and numb, as if the unmistakable twisted expression of excruciating agony had been a spiritual analgesic. His thoughts ran in circles, incredulity warring with indignation with resignation. Is this Britannian justice? Britannian honor? The system worked just fine when it came to breaking up that brawl last night, and when the police decided to scatter the mob, they were able to do that without a sweat. The system worked well enough for the Major to give an order and have it obeyed. So... why didn't the system work for these men? Where's the justice for them?


From the moment Suzaku had realized that an independent Japan was a lost cause, he had resigned himself to living under Britannia's rule. From that moment on, he had done everything he could to execute what he saw as his duty – to do whatever he could to make the occupation as light and easy for the Japanese as possible, no matter how lonely and heavy the burden. He had... He had done what he had to, so Japan would surrender quickly, before the cities were ground into rubble. He had done everything in his power as a civilian to try and make things better for his countrymen, what little that had turned out to be.


Finally, Suzaku had decided to enlist in the Honorary Britannian Legions as an example to his countrymen. He had hoped that the only son of the last Prime Minister of Japan enlisting in the Britannian Army would reconcile his proud people to the new order. Besides, the Army was the one place where an Honorary Britannian could plausibly gain respect and power. If he could accrue power and influence, he could start to change the system from the ground up.


At least, that had been the plan.


Is it even possible to reform the system in any meaningful way? It was far from the first time he had asked himself this question. If the law states that criminals have the right to a trial and to a sentence in line with the penal code, but this sort of thing happens anyway... Suzaku felt helpless, adrift in a dark sea. He had made his choices with the best of intentions, and at the time they had seemed like good decisions with solid reasoning backing them up. He had done everything the Britannians had told his people they needed to do to succeed in Area 11. I gave them everything I had to give, all for the prospect of being a loyal Britannian citizen and an example to my people... But if we give everything we can give, and this still happens... What's the point?


Suzaku forced himself to look away from the face of horror, sighed, and started going to work on the padlock securing the body to the stop sign with a pair of bolt cutters he'd grabbed from the motor pool on the way out. It was true, he had made his choice, but he had made those choices as part of an exchange. He would serve Britannia loyally and faithfully, and in exchange Britannia would be loyal and faithful in its promise that anybody sufficiently loyal and strong could be a Britannian. It was too late to go back, too late to change his past, but that didn't mean the future was already set in stone too. Suzaku had boundless faith in the system; anarchy and chaos fed upon itself, and left everybody poorer by the end. If the leaders who controlled the system were allowing and fostering anarchy and chaos, though... Then it's no longer the system; it's just another form of chaos, dressed up in order's clothes.


The thought was like a hammerblow, but Suzaku kept dutifully working as he mulled through the implications of it. Britannia was far too strong to fight; Japan would be under Britannia. Britannia as it was now was fundamentally unjust; the system needed to be co-opted and reformed. The system as it was now could not be reformed; we need a new system, with new leaders beholden to the rule of law.


Suzaku kept that conclusion to himself. That night, as he listened surreptitiously to one of his squadmate's contraband crank-powered radios, which he normally would have complained about as a breach of the rules, he didn't say a word, not about the radio, and not about the speech Prince Clovis gave on the previous night's "tragic incident". An investigation would be opened into the deaths of the three Purists, apparently, and Prince Clovis was certain that "disloyal rapscallions hiding in the uniforms of our dear little friends and brothers the Honorary Britannians" were responsible. Nowhere in his speech did the Prince mention the tragedy of Christmas morning, nor did the regular news announcer mention the mob lynchings outside of warnings about unsafe roads near Honorary Britannian neighborhoods and installations.


Later that night, lying awake, Suzaku reconsidered his conclusion, ran through the day's events, and found that his resolve had returned once more. He no longer felt numb; in fact, he practically burnt with a new purpose. The only way I can reform the system... Is if I install a new leader to change it from the top down.

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 16: A Student Reporter


(A big thank you to Siatru, and to Grig9700 and to Sunny for beta reading this chapter. It's been a while, eh? Thank you for your patience.)


I woke up bright and early on Christmas morning, well rested and full of energy, to find Ohgi already up and stirring a pan full of eggs on the hotplate. As I untangled myself from my sleeping bag and clambered to my feet, I saw Naoto was still asleep, crashed out on his bed, still in his worker's overalls. Apparently, the team had gotten back safely the night before; I sincerely doubted that Ohgi and Naoto would have let me remain asleep if one of our comrades was in danger, and I couldn't imagine Naoto blissfully sleeping away the morning if something had gone wrong. It seems like they didn't need my help after all.


As I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I tried to figure out why that prospect annoyed me so much. The plan had been inspired by Ohgi's idea, but I had been the one to actually work out the details; nobody, myself included, could reasonably say that I hadn't been involved in the operation, that I hadn't done my part. At the same time, I had gone out of my way to go to bed early and on a full stomach so I could use every scrap of my magic to bail out Naoto, Tamaki, and the others when the plan inevitably went off the rails – and yet, here I was, accepting a plate of eggs from Ohgi with a mumbled "Good morning", still wearing the oversized t-shirt and sweatpants I'd worn to bed the night before.


That's it – I'm all pent up! The answer, I realized as I took a bite of scrambled eggs, was obvious. I'd practically been bouncing off the walls the last few weeks as my arm and side recovered, and only Kallen's invitations to join her on trips to the Settlement, along with the promise of a return to my typical work at the end of this week, had kept me sane. I had gotten myself all worked up over the possibility of going out and getting some exercise after three weeks, and now that I had been denied that release, I was unreasonably irritated. That's all there is to it. I like peaceful work, but exercise is important for a stress-free life.


"So? How'd it go?" Ohgi looked up from his own plate and glared sternly back from across the table, refusing to answer until I'd swallowed the mouthful of breakfast and asked the question again.


"Well..." Ohgi drew out the last syllable as he pushed a forkful of egg around on his plate, considering his answer. "I think it's safe to call it a 'qualified success' overall." Seeing my inquisitively raised eyebrow, he hastily continued. "Everybody got home safe, and it doesn't look like the Brits tracked anything back to Shinjuku, which is the good thing. The other good thing is that Tamaki confirmed at least three Purists died last night – he got one, Gin got another, and Gin and Inuyama ganged up on the third. So, we got what we came for, and we got away clean." I nodded, and Ohgi popped a hasty bite into his mouth, and quickly chewed and swallowed before continuing.


"The bad part is what came after. It's still hard to tell what happened exactly, but some time after the team retreated, buildings suddenly started being lit on fire. I could see the glow from up on the roof – especially since it looked like all the fires were in the Honorary Britannian neighborhoods, so, y'know, close to Shinjuku." Ohgi put down his fork and leaned back in his chair, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin as he looked off into the middle distance. "I could hear the sounds of yelling and screaming from the roof too, not to mention the sounds of lots of angry people breaking a ton of stuff." He looked back at me, and winced sympathetically, no doubt at the expression on my face. "I can only assume that someone saw the uniforms the team was wearing, and decided mob justice was in order."


I scowled as I nodded my acknowledgment, my earlier concerns about the well-being of my comrades and my own annoyance swept away by the sudden flood of worry, anger, and... a little bit of guilt. I had known that it was all but inevitable that the Honorary Britannians would be at least partially blamed for the murders we had committed, but I'd hoped having the "Honorary Britannians" be led by an apparent Britannian would direct the blame more towards other Britannian factions, with the Honorary Britannians treated as the blunt instruments of their foreign officers. The worst I had expected was a handful of show trials of unlucky soldiers on trumped up charges, followed by executions. That would have further blackened the Purists' name, and undermined the loyalty of the Honorary Britannian troops, but it would have been limited in scope and the only Japanese to die would have been the ones who had sworn themselves to the armed service of our occupier. Instead, it looked like the Purists had taken the excuse I'd handed them and initiated a pogrom. It was impossible to tell the scope of the damage at this point, but unquestionably civilians had suffered – men and women doing their best to do as the system demanded in order to live the best lives they could. And I was partially to blame. I had followed in the footsteps of the rebel groups of my youth, only I'd been smart enough to attack outside the ghetto so the retaliatory scourge would fall on someone else's back for a change.


Before I let myself get too far down that train of thought, I paused, and re-examined the facts as I understood them: Agents under my direction and in disguise had murdered a handful of soldiers in a glorified street fight, and in response the Britannians had... organized a mob attack on their own loyal collaborators? None of this is your fault – if anybody's at fault for troops running wild in the streets, it's their idiot leaders who couldn't or wouldn't control their men. Besides, the Britannians were the ones who invaded us, and who have engaged in mass executions as a matter of policy; taking ownership for their fuckups is simple stupidity. The latter thought was probably more in keeping with the truth of the matter – the Britannians had proven themselves as vicious in their treatment of their "loyal subjects" as they always had been when handling the conquered population of Japan. Whatever had happened last night had little to do with my actions; three dead Purists and a flash of Honorary Britannian uniforms had proven to be the catalyst, but the hatred and contempt for the Honorary Britannians had clearly predated Christmas Eve.


All of this talk of fault was meaningless anyhow – the Britannians weren't going to back down and reform their corrupt system to something more equitable and efficient, and I wasn't going to stop fighting against their tyrannical, murderous, and exploitative system because they killed some of the millions of Japanese that lived as functional hostages under their cruelty. All too often, blood was the price for meaningful change, and changing Area 11 was always going to be expensive.


Besides, if the enemy wanted to butcher their loyal soldiers and their families in the street, who was I to disturb them in the midst of making a mistake?


"We need to find out what's going on in the Settlement." I set my fork down on the emptied plate, taking a moment to marvel how eggs had gone from the rare luxury item they had been when I'd met Ohgi and Naoto back to the common ingredient they had once been. "Clearly, something unexpected happened last night. If you're correct that the Settlement's been taken over by roving mobs, that could present an incredible opportunity to strike before the Administration regains control; on the other hand, if those mobs are heading towards Shinjuku after they finish off the Honorary Britannians, we need to know that too so we can prepare a welcome for them."


Ohgi nodded. "Inoue already knows something's up in the Settlement today, and she'll let Tamaki know once he gets up. Nagata's hanging out with the 5th Block Safety Committee right now, ready to pass on the word if it looks like that mess is coming our way. Souichiro and Chihiro are at the hideout, ready to break open our supplies if we give the word."


"What about the others?" It was still something I had to consciously remind myself of, but our small cell was growing by leaps and bounds. Besides Souichiro and Chihiro, the four former gangsters – Hojo, Hina, Gin, and Inuyama – were unquestionably part of our organization now, having gone on multiple combat missions with Naoto and conducted themselves well. Kasumi, one of the former slave prostitutes who had accepted Chihiro and Naoto's offer to join us, had taken on the role of Inoue's dedicated assistant, wanting little to do with violence in general and the former gangsters under Tamaki in particular, while four other freed slaves had begun combat training under Souichiro, Tamaki, and when she was free and in Shinjuku, Kallen.


"Aina and Misato are at the hideout with Chihiro and Souichiro, ready to help hand out weapons if the need comes – apparently, Chihiro's taking the opportunity to drill them on the range while they're waiting." Ohgi smiled at that, clearly proud that his one-time student had inherited his dedication to teaching. "Hojo and Makoto,"-one of the other former slave prostitutes-"are on a roof near the southeast checkpoint keeping an eye open to see if any troops start moving in." The southeast entrance into Shinjuku, along with the southern entrance, had the largest gates and were the most likely path into the ghetto for any armored elements. "Hina's keeping watch over the Rising Sun while Kasumi and Inori are helping Inoue hand out the daily food boxes."


I nodded my thanks at Ohgi. It's such a pleasure to have competent and proactive comrades. Ohgi completely lacked Weiss's professionalism, but he was starting to approach Vi... Visha's ability to preemptively handle the details before I'd thought to deal with them. "Thank you, Ohgi."


I darted over to the clothes I'd carefully laid out last night, in the event I needed to rush off to do battle at a moment's notice. Retrieving my current burner phone from a pant pocket, I punched in Kallen's number from memory as I made my way over to the furthest corner of the room from where Naoto was snoring. No need to distract Kallen with the background noise, and no need to wake up my sleeping leader.


Fortunately, Kallen was already up and answered on the first ring. "Something's happening in the Concession!" Her voice was breathless and stressed as she picked up the phone and immediately got down to business. "I can see at least three plumes of smoke just from my window!"

"Are you in danger right now?" I hadn't expected the rioting to get anywhere near any of the noble neighborhoods, since that's where the Purists lived, but perhaps someone had taken the opportunity to settle a score or two...


"Eh? Oh! No, they're all pretty far off. Do you know what's happening?"


I quickly filled her in on what Ohgi had told me: Our unit had successfully exfiltrated after leaving multiple Purists dead in the street, hopefully fulfilling the requirements of our backers, and now the Honorary Britannian neighborhoods near Shinjuku were on fire.


"Past that point, it's all speculation." I shrugged, hoping the gesture would carry through my voice. "Ohgi and I think it's likely that the Purists are the ones behind it all, but we don't have any concrete evidence of that."


There was a pause for a moment, but I could hear Kallen's heavy breathing on the other end of the line. After a few seconds, her voice came back in, taut with emotion. "W-why... Why do you think they're doing this? What's the point of killing the H-Honorary Britannians? They've done everything they were supposed to..."


The answer that immediately leapt to my mind was a trite "nobody likes a traitor", but didn't ring true – the Honorary Britannians forsaking family, culture, and tradition in favor of loyalty to Britannia fit what I understood Britannia's ideals to be perfectly. Besides being inaccurate, a flippant answer like that would have been cruel; it didn't take an experienced officer and manager to tell that Kallen was deeply worried by a potential Honorary Britannian purge, and thanks to my trip months ago to the Stadtfeld Manor, I knew exactly why she was so concerned, and so I chose to answer the question she hadn't asked first.


"I'm fairly certain your mother's safe, Kallen." The sharp intake of breath told me I'd read the situation correctly, but I pressed on before she could butt in. Kallen's worried and scared for her mother – once Naoto wakes up, I'm sure he'll be too. "She lives in a noble manor, and nobody's going to go house to house forcing nobles to hand over their domestics to the mob; more importantly, she's got the eye of a noble – two nobles, in fact, the Lord and Heir of House Stadtfeld. She's probably the safest Honorary Britannian in the city." I paused, letting those words sink in. Over the phone, I heard Kallen take a deep breath, slowly reigning her anxiety and fear back under control. "Besides, she's not a soldier, and I'm going to bet that the Honorary Britannian soldiers are probably the priority target for the mobs, if the Purists really are behind whatever's happening."


"Because our comrades wore Honorary Britannian uniforms." It wasn't a question. Kallen had, of course, been deeply involved with the information gathering process for the plan, and she'd known what the uniforms we'd stolen were for.


"That's definitely the bloody shirt they'll be waving, yes." I acknowledged, making my thoughts clear on the grounds for that excuse. "And if a few men dying in a brawl were enough to touch off a murderous assault on their fellow loyal subjects – including the soldiers most motivated to zealously carry out any order given – clearly there's more to it than just that. These sorts of things don't just happen, Kallen. Whatever happened last night's been coming for quite some time, and we just happened to hand the bastards an excuse. Don't let them paint our hands red with the blood they've shed – our hands are going to be bloody enough by the time this all ends as is."


Amazingly, Kallen laughed at that. It was a familiar laugh, a jeering laugh laden with a bleak humor, one that reminded me of the trenches, and of passing sandbags down a row of soldiers from where they were being filled in a relay trench to the forward-most line.


Back on the Rhine Front, enough men had been pulverized by artillery that loose body parts were far from uncommon. During the bad times, when the typical barrages had accelerated to constant drumfire for hours, if not days – when it was days, that always meant our sector had been chosen for Francois assault – only mages could leave the trenches without at least a fifty percent chance of death, and our time and energy were too valuable to spend on evacuating corpses. The fallen had been buried into the walls and floors of our dugouts and trenches, and as the men who had buried those unfortunates were themselves killed, the exact locations of all the bodies had been forgotten. When it came time to dig dirt out of the sides of the trench or the floor to fill new sandbags, however, those dead had returned to our awareness, and more often than not the sandbags we'd passed man to girl to man had rotting flesh mixed in with the sand and the loam. It had become a common joke for someone to call out what part of "Willy" was in each sandbag, along with an adjective. "Willy's dirty hands here" were passed down the line, followed by "Willy's shit-filled guts here". It had been hilarious, down in the dirt and the constant stench of death, covered in fleas. We had laughed, infantry and mages both, at the cruelty of the world and how small we were.


That was the laugh I heard from Kallen, and I knew that her worries, while not past, would not trouble her again. In the worst pits of that muddy hell, it was the men capable of cynical laughter in one moment, and breathtaking feats of heroism in the next, who could truly be counted on. I knew Kallen, and while she was still young, she had already proven herself to me. I knew I could count on her. Besides, she's not as young as I was when I went into the trenches near Kaiserslautern.


"Oh, I guess they will be, Tanya, I guess they will be." Kallen took a moment to clear her throat, coughing on what sounded like a vaguely manic giggle. "Anyway, how can I help? Should I head over to Shinjuku right away?"


I smiled fondly into the phone, watching Ohgi crawl onto his bunk and fall asleep after a night up keeping watch for our comrades returning from the belly of the beast. "Not quite, Kallen. Right now, our first priority is information – we need to find out what happened last night after Naoto and Tamaki retreated, and we need to find out what the Britannians think is going on. At the moment, you seem the best placed to get answers." I thought back to her notebook full of names and connections. "Do you think any of your school connections with loose lipped parents know anything?"


"No clue." Kallen's answer was depressingly quick. "Milly might, since she seems to know everything, but I don't want to ask her. She'd immediately ask why I'm interested, and she's already way too curious about me."


That was a disappointing, although not unexpected answer. Kallen's antipathy towards Milly had subsided into the background of her reports, but that didn't mean it had faded in the slightest. Considering the second-hand accounts of her behavior I'd read in Kallen's notes, lines like "Milly tried to grab my breasts", "Milly implied that I was trading sexual favors for grades", and "Milly commented on how tight my school swimsuit is" interspersed between gossip about military activity and overheard speculation on Clovis's growing affiliation with the Purist Faction, I could fully understand why Kallen was so angry with the other girl. Unfortunately, budding sexual offender or not, the same reports made it clear that Milly was a startlingly intelligent young woman who had a deep network of informants that supplemented her access to her grandfather's files. If she had heard anything of use through her connections, which included the children of Purist officers and of the noble families that sympathized with and backed those officers, I might have to order Kallen to bite the bullet and ask the walking HR headache for a favor...


I suddenly realized that Kallen was still talking, and hastily dragged my attention back to our conversation. "-be a bit risky, but I think it would be the best way to get some answers. Plus, it worked before, so it might work again."


"I'm sorry, Kallen." I apologized with a grimace at my own wandering thoughts. Always pay attention when your employees are speaking! Doing otherwise will make them feel undervalued! "I was distracted. What did you say?"


"Well, uhh..." Kallen coughed self-consciously through the phone, and I could practically imagine the stubborn blush spreading across her cheeks. "I was just saying that I could try the student reporter excuse again. Something's obviously happening, so I could just tell anyone who stops me that I just wanted to get a scoop for the student paper. And I know it might be a bit risky, but I don't think anyone is going to get super upset with an idiot schoolgirl sticking her nose into serious matters..."


"Excellent idea." My praise was sincere, but I made an effort to inject an extra dose of enthusiasm and relief into it to make up for inadvertently tuning her out earlier. "Be careful, bring your knife, and let me know if you need any help or backup – I'll be waiting with Nagata, and we'll be on our way as fast as possible if you need us."


---------


Several minutes of reassuring her friend and leader that yes, she did in fact know what she was doing when it came to dressing up as a student reporter later, Kallen finally managed to end the call, shaking her head with fond exasperation.


Tanya was frighteningly intense in all that she did, which was mostly an advantage when it came to waging war on a brutal, evil occupation while running a charity as a side gig, but her tendency to micromanage could be intensely annoying at times. Kallen had actually brought that up during one of her increasingly rare visits to her brother's apartment, and while Naoto had commiserated with her frustration, he had also pointed out that Tanya's controlling behavior shouldn't be seen as some sort of implicit criticism or a lack of faith. When Kallen had first met Tanya, she had already seemed extremely self-possessed and utterly confident, stopping short of arrogant only because of her incredible skill. And because of a moment of kindness and reassurance on a nameless Shinjuku street. Naoto, on the other hand, had first met Tanya when she still flinched whenever anybody moved near her, always anticipating an attack. The way he'd told it, even convincing her that she could eat their food had been a struggle, even though she was obviously hungry, and that hurdle had only been cleared once she'd been convinced she'd earned her meals. Her controlling behavior now, Naoto had pointed out, was definitely a reaction to growing up in a ghetto where life was cheap and food was scarce even for hard workers and strong backs.


"Besides," Naoto had said, draining the last of his cup of watered-down rotgut, "she couldn't do anything about her mom dying last summer. I bet you she's thinking that if she plans everything out just perfectly, none of us are gonna die. So far, she's been right about that."


That had been a sobering thought, and a bleak note to end their meeting on, but both Kozuki siblings had work to do for the Cause. That private moment of darkness, of the knowledge that "so far" could only go for so long, had been a reminder about how incredibly lucky they had been. Although he no longer openly, or even quietly, tried to convince her to back out, Kallen knew that her brother still wanted her as far from the front line as possible, and his enthusiasm about her intelligence gathering operations was very poorly concealed.


"But Big Bro, those operations are why I need to stay. It's something only I can do for the Cause," Kallen muttered to herself as she hastily dressed, pulling on the stylish outfit she'd worn during her trip into the Settlement earlier in the week. After a quick look in the mirror, she swapped out the blouse in favor of a white button-down, so she could wear her school tie for that extra "schoolgirl reporter" flair. As she carefully brushed her hair into the right amount of stylish dishevelment to complete the look, a knock came from the door.


"Enter!" Although Kallen kept looking into the mirror, her eyes were fixed on the reflection of the door rather than her face, and her hand crept close to the compact with its concealed knife. She had a standing order that the servants weren't to disturb her in the morning on weekends or holidays, and her stepmother never came to her room herself, preferring to summon her to the parlor on the rare occasions they were forced to speak. Who the hell could that be...?


The door opened slightly, and to Kallen's mild surprise her mother, her real mother, slipped inside, smoothly closing the door behind her. The facade of the perfect maid held for a second, before her mother's posture cracked as it only did when they were alone and in private and she rushed across the room, enfolding Kallen in a hug and pulling her to her chest. To Kallen's surprise, she could feel her mother shuddering against her, and felt a warm wetness in her hair where her mother had buried her face.


"M-mom? Are you okay?" Gingerly, Kallen wrapped her arms around her mother and returned the hug, desperately running through the list of possibilities for this uncharacteristically uncontrolled behavior. "Are the other servants messing with you again?" A tightly controlled knot of rage began to pulse in her chest, and Kallen strove to keep the traditional Stadtfeld temper under control. This isn't the time to fly off the handle. "Did that bitch hit you again?"


"Kallen, please, please..." Her mother's voice was deeply stressed, full of nearly uncontrollable fear and worry. "Please tell me Naoto's okay. I heard from Ohgi yesterday that he was going into the Concession for a job but... But I haven't heard from him since... Since... Kallen, please..."


Oh, Naoto, you idiot! "Don't worry Mom – I just got off the phone with Tanya. Everybody got home safely. He's sleeping in his apartment right now." Kallen winced as her mother's embrace tightened just a bit more, and immediately began making her brother's excuses. "He probably got in super early, Mom! He didn't want to wake you up! I bet you he was gonna call you as soon as he woke up!"


"That stupid inconsiderate idiot boy!" The hug suddenly turned vicelike. "Thinks that just because he's a big grown man I won't haul him over my knee? Make me stay up all night thinking he was dead or hurt while the whole damned Concession goes crazy? That no-good idiot boy! I raised him better, Kallen!"


Kallen soothingly rubbed her mother's back, trying to convey sympathy while she kept an eye on the door. Hope nobody's close enough to hear a bunch of angry Japanese... And I hope she remembers I'm not Naoto before she breaks my ribs. "Mom, Mom... You're right, Mom. He's an idiot. But he's alive, and he's safe... So, uh... Can you let go?"


Thankfully, her mother got the message, releasing Kallen to her relief. For a moment, her mother looked like she was about to continue her rant, before visibly taking a moment to calm down. Then, to Kallen's rising sense of dread, she took a moment to look her daughter up and down, from her school tie to her booted feet. "And where might you be headed this morning, Mistress Kallen?" The tone was asked in a sweet tone, as subservient as any maid's voice should be, but in Kallen's ears the words sounded as heavy and implacable as an oncoming sledgehammer.


"Well, uhh..." Kallen coughed nervously, damning the embarrassed heat she could feel on her cheeks. It was amazing how repairing her relationship with her mother had suddenly given her "maid" the power to make her feel like a child again. "Tanya asked me to find out what exactly happened last night, so... Ahh... I was going to go out and take a look...?"


For a second, Kallen was certain that her mother would, despite their status as maid and mistress, try to put her in time out and confine her to her room for the rest of the week, only allowing her to leave for school. She wouldn't have had the power to enforce any such edict, but Kallen doubted that would stop her mother, worked up as she was after a night wondering if her eldest child was dead.


After a moment, though, her mother sighed, shook her head, and wrapped her arms around Kallen again, not the crushing embrace of worry and anger but a light hug, reassuring herself that her daughter was still there, and reassuring her daughter that she wasn't about to be subjected to maternal fury. "You're just like your brother." Her mother's voice was warm in Kallen's ear. "Stubborn and stupid, and far too brave for your own good." With a last gentle squeeze, Kallen found herself released as her mother retreated back across the room, back towards the door. "Should I have the car brought around for you, Mistress Kallen?"


Kallen gulped down the dense wad of emotions blocking her throat and hastily rubbed the tears from her eyes. You were always there, Momma, looking out for me and Naoto... "N-no, that's fine. I don't want anyone to know where I'm going. I'll just catch a bus or something."


Her mother turned as she opened the door. "Mistress Kallen, haven't you heard that the public transportation system has been temporarily shut down in light of last night's... events?"


Dammit! No, Kallen had not realized that little wrinkle when she'd volunteered her services to be Tanya's eyes and ears. I can't call a driver -the bitch will know I'm out and about, and might start asking questions... I need a ride... Hey, wait a second... A few days earlier, Kallen had accompanied two of her fellow members of the Student Paper to do a story on the Motor Club, and to take pictures of the club members with their personal vehicles. To her surprise, one of the members of the Motor Club had been Rivalz Cardemonde, the same young man she'd convinced to sign the papers making him the nominal director of the Rising Sun Benevolent Association. Rivalz had posed with a motorcycle with a sidecar, smiling proudly under a pair of dorky goggles and a bicycle helmet Kallen doubted was rated for use on a motorcycle.


Kallen darted back to her desk and scooped up her phone, frantically paging through her contacts, and letting out a sigh of relief once she reached the "R's". She'd asked for Rivalz's number after she had convinced him to sign the papers, and he'd been all too eager to give it to her, nearly dropping her phone as he typed it into the new contact. She'd never had a reason to use it before, and thankfully he'd never tried to call or text her after the first exchange of confirmation texts, but now...


"Thank you, but the car won't be necessary." Kallen turned back to her mother and smiled. "I've got a guy." Immediately, her mother's eyes narrowed and Kallen felt her already red cheeks light up anew as she realized what her mother had just heard. "No! I mean, he's got a motorcycle!" As soon as the words were out, Kallen knew that she hadn't helped her case.


Her mother glared at her for a moment longer, before shaking her head. "I didn't say anything when Naoto went to live with Ohgi, so I won't say anything to you. Just... Be safe." And before Kallen could dig the hole she'd fallen into deeper by trying to correct her mother, the door closed, leaving Kallen gaping open-mouthed at the polished wood.


Rivalz picked up on the third ring. "Kallen? Is that you? I'd totally forgotten you had my number! Merry Christmas!"


Kallen smiled vapidly at nobody, staring at the distant plumes of rising smoke from her bedroom window. "Merry Christmas to you too, Rivalz! Have you finished unwrapping your presents yet?"


Rivalz chuckled. "Ah, you know it! I got a pretty good haul this year – how about you?"


"Oh, my family doesn't really do Christmas – especially since Daddy's still back in the Homeland." Kallen easily slipped into her role, letting her sentences end on a rising inflection, full of peppiness. "Anyway, my stepmother is still sleeping in, and since I didn't have anything to do today, I figured I'd try to get some work done for the school paper. Wanna help me?"


There was a pause, before Rivalz responded. "Umm... Sure, I guess? I don't really have anything going on for the next few hours, and then I need to meet up with a buddy..."


"Great!" Kallen chirped before he could try to back out or make excuses. "I'll text you my address! Bring your bike – I'm gonna need a ride!" She smiled at the sound of a hasty acceptance. And now to make sure he doesn't get cold feet. "Thanks, Rivalz! You're the best – I really need help, but I'm also really happy to go on a ride with you!" As he sputtered in her ear, Kallen disconnected the call and sent two texts, one to Rivalz with her address, the second to Naoto warning him that he'd better be ready to grovel for forgiveness from their mother.


Twenty minutes of waiting by the gate of Stadtfeld Manor later, Kallen climbed into Rivalz's side-car, swapping out her flat cap for a helmet. Wish I hadn't bothered to fix my hair up – it's all gonna be crushed flat by this thing.


As he revved his motor, Rivalz yelled a question over the noise, still managing to sound tentative about talking to a pretty girl while doing so. "So, uhh... Where are we going, Kallen? You didn't actually say what you were doing for the paper over the phone, you know..." And finally the penny drops.


Kallen lowered her own pair of goggles into place over her eyes, looked up at Rivalz from her lower position in the sidecar, and smiled up at him. "As a reporter, I want to figure out just what happened last night – and to do that, we need to go to the Honorary Britannian neighborhoods, over by the Shinjuku Ghetto."


As expected, Rivalz was less than thrilled. He immediately killed his engine and turned to her, eyes wide and incredulous behind his goggles. "Are you insane?! Kallen, that whole place is still on fire!"


"Then we'd better get there to take some pictures before someone decides to put out all the buildings they set on fire!" Kallen retorted, momentarily forgetting her mask. Seeing Rivalz's eyes widen in surprise, she immediately started backtracking. "Sorry, it's... Look, this is important, right? Something big happened last night, and nobody's talking about it yet – they're only saying people should avoid those areas. But that's where the news is happening! I need to get there and get the story before this all gets swept under the rug!"


Rivalz still looked conflicted. "But... It could be dangerous, you know..."


Sensing that he was wavering, Kallen moved in for the kill. Reaching out, she rested her hand on his outer thigh, currently at the rough height of her shoulder, and leaned in, ignoring his sudden blush. "Rivalz, we're both clearly Britannian – nobody's going to mess with us. Besides, don't you want to have a little... adventure?" Kallen felt dirty as she added the seductive twist to her last word, but stamped her qualms down. Anything for the Cause, for my mission. Tanya's counting on me.


Thankfully for Kallen's dignity, her last appeal seemed to have tilted the scales; Rivalz's gaze firmed, and he nodded, earlier reluctance seemingly forgotten. "You're right. It's important that the student body knows what's happening in the world around them!"


Kallen just nodded and smiled, concealing her embarrassment and rising impatience as best she could. "I'm glad we're on the same page. Let's get going – the news isn't going to write itself!"


As a far off church bell tolled nine, Rivalz took the nearest highway exit to Shinjuku and followed Kallen's directions as she guided them towards the outpost she had visited the previous week. She doubted that the Britannian officers in charge of the pocket installation would be as eager to offer her hospitality as before, to say nothing of indulging a cute student reporter and answering interview questions, but Kallen remembered how eager the younger soldiers were to talk to her and how they spilled everything they knew at the slightest hint of feminine interest. I'm sure they'll be falling over themselves to talk about how they beat up the uppity Elevens.


Kallen deliberately kept her thoughts on the process of preparing to fawn over bloody-handed butchers, doing her best to sink into her noble Britannian persona. It was easier to don the mask of the perfect aristocratic daughter, benignly interested in the affairs of those below her and so supportive of His Majesty's men in uniform, everything that Kozuki Kallen hated. Focusing on shaping the perfect simpering smile was easy, and staying focused on the possibility of information gathering made it easier to ignore the rising feeling of guilt as her sidecar rolled past shops with broken windows and a burnt out car. We're pretty far from the outpost... and that's where the unit we stole those uniforms are... With practiced effort, Kallen shoved that line of thought down into the dark and turned to examine her driver for the day.


Rivalz looked, unsurprisingly, shaken by the property damage all around them. As they passed a pharmacy that had clearly seen an attempt at arson, judging by the thick black smudging over its smashed in windows and broken door, he gulped hard enough for Kallen to see from her position in the sidecar. This is probably the first time he's ever seen anything like this. Kallen supposed she'd be equally disturbed if she hadn't seen the immediate aftermath of Mister Asahara's little surprises, or if she still didn't carry around foggy memories of the Conquest. She'd been out of the worst of it, but Naoto hadn't always been able to cover her eyes fast enough back in those chaotic months.


Kallen reached up and gently patted the side of Rivalz's leg. She didn't have any personal grudge against the boy, and he'd been quite helpful – unbeknownst to him – with the Rising Sun; she could spare him a bit of reassurance. "It's probably gonna be worse once we get closer to the outpost." It only seemed fair to warn him. Plus, it'd be a shame if he lost his lunch while driving the motorcycle. "If you want to drop me off here, I can go on alone."


Rivalz looked shocked at the idea, stealing an incredulous look at Kallen before turning his eyes back on the road. "Hell no! I'm not gonna dump you off by the side of the road in the middle of a war zone!" He shook his head. "Let's just get this over with, so I can get back home."


Kallen just nodded. Well, can't say I didn't try. She looked up at Rivalz, and approvingly noted that the boy's expression had firmed up. It's strange... He's my age, but for some reason it feels like he's way younger... Hell, Tanya feels older than him, especially when she zones out... Her age or not, innocent or not, so far Rivalz had risen to the occasion; Kallen hoped that he'd continue to prove reliable moving forwards – his name was on too many important documents, and a mental break would draw unwanted attention towards the charity he "sponsored".


Despite the handful of junked cars and the abundance of garbage strewn across the street, Rivalz skillfully navigated his mechanical steed, sidecar and all, down the cluttered roads of the Honorary Britannian neighborhood. To Kallen's vague discomfort, the streets were eerily deserted, without a single pedestrian in evidence as they cruised down the roads littered with evidence from the previous night. A few minutes, and many vandalized buildings, later the white-washed concrete of the outpost's walls emerged from the endless rows of shops and apartment high rises, coils of razor wire glinting in the winter morning sunlight over the top of the surrounding roofs.


Despite the bravado of the Britannian flag waving over the strong walls, the installation had an undeniably defensive air, like an injured boxer preparing to ward off incoming blows. Unlike the last time Kallen had visited, the steel bars of the gates were raised and the smaller pedestrian entrance had been chained shut. As Rivalz slowed to a stop on the frontage road in front of the garrison – the raised road spikes prevented them from actually approaching the sealed vehicle entrance – Kallen noted that the paint around the pedestrian entrance was blackened and peeling, and the concrete peeking out from under the institutional eggshell cover was chipped, as if someone had spent a considerable amount of time hammering away at the wall.


Kallen raised her cellphone and quickly snapped a picture of the chained gate surrounded by the halo of soot. So the mob definitely came here last night... Did they get in? Through the lens of her camera, Kallen noticed what looked like a deserted triage site on the parade ground between the two Honorary Britannian barracks, a row of cots with bloodstained linen surrounded by discarded fatigues and soiled bandages. She could vaguely make out several men sitting against one of the barracks walls flanked on either side by a pair of armed soldiers before her view of the interior was abruptly obscured by a Britannian uniform.


"Oy! What the hell are you lookin' at? Get the fuck outta here!" The approaching soldier who stepped out from behind the wall and into the frame of the pedestrian gate, voice thick with the accent of New Belfast, gesticulated from behind the steel bars, one hand waving the pair of teenagers off while the other rested on the rifle hanging from his shoulder. "Get outta here and get yerselves home, now!"


As soon as she saw the gun, Kallen felt the familiar rush of icy heat as her adrenaline spiked. The coal of fury at the Brit bastards who had come from beyond the sea to ravage her people that always smoldered in her belly flared to life at the possibility of a fight, while the cold water of discipline kept the inferno tightly controlled, leashed until it was time to make them the victims for a change. But that time isn't now – and you're not a Kozuki. Not right now.


Quickly hitting the 'Record' button on her phone, Kallen summoned up her memories of how confident and righteous Tanya had sounded in that ruined office a block from Shinjuku-gyoemmae Station before responding. "What happened here last night?" she yelled back, feeling Rivalz's rising anxiety like a palpable pressure on her back and ignoring it. "Who tried to break down the gate? Did anybody get hurt?"


Two more soldiers appeared behind the first. "Last chance," one of the new arrivals shouted back, a sergeant's chevron painted on the breastplate of his uniform, as he raised his rifle in their vague direction. "This is a restricted area. By Prince Clovis's order, we have the authority to open fire on all potential threats. Leave immediately."


As the barrel of the rifle swung their way, Kallen began to repeat her questions, but Rivalz apparently hit his tolerance for danger. The bike's engine roared back to life, and Kallen barely had time to stop the recording and shove the phone back into her pocket before they rocketed off down the street. Spurred by the threat from behind, which Kallen was almost certain had been a bluff, Rivalz sped off at breakneck speed, recklessly weaving around debris. Only a few blocks away, though, he was forced to slow to a more reasonable speed as the debris thickened, stopping entirely at a three way intersection jammed by the cadaver of a burnt out delivery truck. The wheels had melted and the interior of the cab was just a mass of blackened plastic, but the steel frame still completely blocked the roadbed.


As the engine sputtered and died, Rivalz stood up from the bike and staggered away, nearly collapsing to his knees before catching himself against a nearby streetlight. From the sidecar, Kallen could see his body shiver as the adrenaline flood of a near-death experience stimulated every muscle with the need to flee. She pulled the helmet and goggles off, unnoticed sweat instantly chilly on her face and scalp in the midwinter air, and took the opportunity to stand up from the cramped confines of the sidecar, booted feet crunching on shattered glass. Hope Rivalz paid for self-sealing tires or something.


Stretching her back, Kallen took a moment to look around. The area had been nice enough, once, with a barbershop, a liquor store, and interestingly enough, a tattoo parlor all in a strip mall sharing a parking lot, while two three story apartment buildings framed the third leg of the intersection. The tattoo parlor in particular was a sign that this was a neighborhood of people determined to adapt Britannian foibles, as tattoos still made most Japanese think immediately of the yakuza. All of those observations faded into irrelevance as she looked back at Rivalz, and at the streetlight he was leaning against.


The rope was short, incredibly so. Only a foot at most between the arch of the streetlight and the grisly burden dangling over Rivalz's head. Distantly, Kallen noticed that a pair of ladders presumably looted from a hardware store somewhere had been left in the parking lot, one buried in the shattered windshield of a minivan, and she wondered how the uniformed soldier had been forced to climb that rickety aluminum scaffold, particularly with his hands bound. She could only imagine what must have waited down below on the street to make him climb that ladder to the waiting self-appointed hangman and the noose, far too short for neckbreaking but the perfect length for an agonizing death by strangulation.


Moving carefully, as if too sudden an action would disturb the sepulchral tranquility of the scene, silent but for Rivalz's harsh breathing and the distant sounds of traffic, Kallen pulled her phone out of her pocket and snapped one, two, three pictures of the hanged man, taking care to capture the unit and rank badges still visible on his shoulder and chest. The face was mangled, cheekbones broken and eyes swollen shut, but the agony was clear on the gray features; member of His Majesty's Armed Forces or not, Kallen was grimly certain that nobody had pulled on the poor man's legs to speed his exit from the world.


Ever since she had realized that the rising smoke came not from the ghetto but from the homes and businesses of Honorary Britannians, Kallen had wrestled with her emotions, trying to figure out what she should feel about the sudden wave of fratricidal violence that her rebel band had helped unleash. A cruel voice, the same one that had once sneered at her mother's weakness, had savored every burnt building and smashed window, each piece of evidence that Britannia's bootlickers were getting kicked by their masters, that their debasement had been a futile attempt to escape the horrible situation they'd abandoned their countrymen to. Another voice, one that carried Naoto's assurance and Ohgi's caring tones, pointed out that Honorary Britannian or not, Eleven or not, these were people who were suffering, the majority of whom had probably only been doing the best they could to keep their families healthy and safe, and that nobody deserved to be murdered by a mob of the worst of Britannia.


A third voice, one that sounded eerily like Hajime Tanya, said that it didn't really matter how Kallen felt about the hanged man, nor about the family he left behind or the community that had been devastated in the same murderous wave that had swamped the Honorary Britannians of the Tokyo Settlement; all that mattered was that the image of an Honorary Britannian in the uniform of the Britannian Army hung from a streetlight by a Britannian mob was political dynamite, if used correctly.


The bastards gave us the rope to hang them when they hung you. Kallen found herself talking to the nameless soldier, already reduced to an object absent of life, and soon to be reduced to a mere propaganda point if she did her job correctly. I don't know who you were, or what you did in life, but I'll make sure you serve Japan in death. Anything for the cause. She inclined her head slightly, the closest she could let herself go to bowing her respect towards the deceased while in the company of a Britannian.


In the company of a Britannian... Suddenly, Kallen remembered that Rivalz was still leaning against the post, taking deep, calming breaths, completely unaware of the boots dangling ten feet over his head. Shit! I've gotta get him away from there before he realizes I just let him stand under a corpse!


"Rivalz," Kallen began, letting a little bit of Kozuki Kallen, insurgent, slip into the honeyed voice of Kallen Stadtfeld, socialite. "I need you to come over here. Right now." Rivalz started to turn towards her, an inquisitive look on his face, looking around for whatever it was that she'd seen. Dammit, just come! His eyes widened, and Kallen cursed internally as she realized she'd spoken that thought aloud. "Look, just... trust me. Get over here. Right now."


Rivalz shrugged, and trotted over to her, glass crunching under his sneakers. His face was still slightly ashen, but that typical puppylike smile so young, so innocent, had returned beneath his goggles. "What's up, Kallen? See something cool?"


Kallen felt her heart break slightly. I was such an idiot to ask you for a ride... I'm sorry, Rivalz. "Rivalz, we need to get back on your bike to leave, but when you turn around, you're going to see... something. Something really bad. I need you to understand that I didn't know, didn't expect this, and I need you to know that there's nothing we can do to help. Okay? You got it?"


Rivalz cocked his head, a look of confusion and uneasy amusement on his face. "Umm... Sure, I guess?" He chuckled. "Man, you sound pretty freaked out, Kallen! Last time I heard a warning like that, Nina was changing in the Council Room and Shirley was too embarrassed to just spit it out! I had no idea what she was talking about, so I just walked right in! Man, that Nina's tiny, but she slaps like a gorilla!" He laughed again, clearly expecting her to join in on his amusement.


Kallen had no idea what to say to that. It was like Rivalz had come from some totally different world, a far kinder and gentler world, one alien to her experience. She realized she had no idea what to say, how to couch the unspeakable in mere words. It dawned on Kallen that this was a window into "her" own culture, the culture of her father, the world of young nobles that she'd come to late and had always felt estranged from, unable to truly relate to her peers thanks to the memories of the Conquest and memories of Naoto coming home with bloody knuckles and torn clothes night after night. The Britannians were unquestionably monsters, but their children were, in a horrible way, innocent – not blameless, but innocent and thus ignorant – of the world around them.


And so, Kallen said nothing, unable to find the words to soften the blow, and merely watched as Rivalz turned from her, curious at what she had seen. She watched as he first looked side to side, before noticing the dangling boots and looking up.


For a moment, Rivalz just stood in place, before he staggered, rocking back on his heels and stumbling as his face twisted in revulsion in his attempt to get away from the grisly bundle of meat and cloth and nylon and vomiting into the gutter. The first effort was the most productive, but by the third and fourth retches the young man had fallen forward onto hands and knees, coughing and spitting and trying to expel the contents of an empty belly. He was heedless of the glass that carpeted the ground, and Kallen could only hope that he hadn't accidentally shoved too many shards into his hands when he'd fallen; she didn't know how to operate the motorcycle, after all. She didn't know why she suddenly felt so helpless, demoted to a mere spectator in a personal tragedy, mutely standing and watching the death of innocence. I... I don't know what to do here.


In a way, Kallen found she could relate to the young Britannian, who'd stopped vomiting but still knelt on all fours, trembling and twitching over the acrid bile; She'd been horribly naive when she'd followed Naoto into Shinjuku, demanding to join the fight for Japan's future. That blithe ignorance of the facts of life had vanished forever as she'd stared into the desperate eyes of the first man she killed, and it was only thanks to Tanya's intervention that she'd survived not only the desperate fight, but also the aftermath as sudden awareness of what she had done had come crashing down.


How had she done it back then? I got angry at her, she threw the anger back at me... Comforted me... Reassured me... and told me that it was all for the Cause...


Kallen felt the gears inside her mind shift back to life. She wasn't some genius planner, but she didn't have to be – she had a template to follow from someone who was, and enough intelligence to know how to mold it to fit the scenario now that the roles were reversed. Anything for the Cause... I know how to deal with anger, so the first thing to do is get him angry.


Kallen stooped down over Rivalz, hooked her arms under his armpits, and rose, dragging the surprisingly light boy back to his feet. He mumbled some vague protest before sagging in her arms; so she grabbed the collar of his shirt and briskly shook him, leaned him back against her side, and turned him back towards the hanging man. With her free hand, she tilted his head up towards the body, moving her own head beside his to look up with him at the unfortunate victim.


"Don't look away now, Rivalz!" Kozuki Kallen commanded, shaking the hapless Britannian again by his shirt as she spoke into his ear. "You've spent seventeen years looking away, but no more! This is Area Eleven – this is Japan – and this is what life is like! That man might be wearing a Britannian uniform, but he sure looked Eleven enough to the crowd!" She noticed that Rivalz had begun to stiffen up again, and slowly reduced the amount of his weight she was supporting. "That's what Britannia really looks like – so what're you going to do about it, Rivalz Cardemonde?"


Whether because of the shaking or the yelling in his ear, Rivalz seemed to have been shocked back into awareness; when Kallen took her hand off his head, he didn't slump forwards again. His eyes, overflowing with tears, were wide open and clear, and locked on the hanged man. Kallen looked down and saw his hands, which were thankfully only slightly cut up, had begun to curl into fists.


Good.


Kallen let go of Rivalz's collar and stepped back. "Well, what're you going to do about it, Rivalz? What are you going to do next?"


"What can I do?" Rivalz's voice was a husky shadow of what it had been only minutes earlier, devoid of the peppy enthusiasm and rough with raw emotion and lingering bile. "What can we even do? This... What the fuck, Kallen? We're just kids, this... this is way beyond us. What... What the hell happened here? Why the hell are we even out here?! Who did this to him?" As the questions kept coming his hands kept twitching and tightening, harder and harder, until he suddenly winced, the apparent stab of pain temporarily halting his spiraling thoughts. Shit, gotta take care of that. There might still be glass in there.


"That's what I'm trying to find out." Time for stage two. Kallen stepped up beside him and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing firmly before pulling him into a one-armed hug of sorts, pulling him into her shoulder the way Naoto did to Ohgi when they drank. "I told you that the people needed to know what the Administration is keeping quiet, right?" She squeezed him again into her shoulder, before letting go and turning him around, forcing him away from the horrible sight.


"Now, lemme see your hands – let's see if you managed to get any glass sunk in there, eh?" Kallen tried to inject a bit of humor into the sentence, but it fell flat in the somehow dense December air. Wordlessly, Rivalz proffered his hands, palms up, and Kallen winced. There were a number of thankfully shallow cuts across his fingers and palms, but the base of his left hand was sporting a puncture wound of some sort, and twisting her head Kallen thought she saw a small shard glistening in the wound. Hope there's something left in the liquor store to rinse that out...


Rivalz was surprisingly stoic as Kallen carefully plucked the shard out of his hand, and only winced slightly and hissed between clenched teeth as she carefully poured a small plastic bottle of schnapps she'd rescued from where it had rolled under an overturned shelf. On the off chance that there were any particles of glass that she couldn't see in the cuts, she poured a bottle of water from the trashed convenience store over his hands too.


Surprisingly, Rivalz broke the uneasy silence first. "Well, Kallen... you asked me what I was gonna do now..." He sighed, looked up at the body and jerked his eyes away, hunkering his shoulders as he deliberately turned his back towards the streetlight. "I just don't know. What the hell am I supposed to do?"


Stage three. "What do you think about that, Rivalz?" Kallen gestured at the corpse, and while he didn't follow her hand, she knew by his flinch that Rivalz got the message. "What do you think about all of this? This is an Honorary Britannian neighborhood, Rivalz – these people are all Britannian subjects, sworn to the Emperor's service – but someone came through and destroyed this place. Who do you think did it?"


Rivalz grimaced. "Well... It could have been Numbers, I guess, jealous of their former countrymen who found a better life, but..." He shrugged. "That would've been all over the radio, and the police and the army would be all over the place." Good to see he's got a functional brain, when he chooses to use it. "If I'm being honest... I think it was probably the Britannian citizens – y'know, not the nobles, not the wealthy or the soldiers. Just all the lower-class guys that came over from Pendragon once the Concession opened up." Wait, what? Kallen's face must have reflected some of her confusion, because Rivalz quickly explained that his father, while a noble, was relatively low ranking and had to engage in business to support his household, instead of the classic noble occupation of collecting rents. As a result, he'd made sure Rivalz got a part-time job as a bartender in one of the clubs he owned. "...and I don't think anybody hates Honorary Britannians more than poor Britannians. They work twice as hard for half the wage, so lots of places would rather hire them than citizens."


"Really?" Kallen was fascinated. She knew, of course, that lower-class Britannians hated Elevens just as much as the nobility did – after all, Naoto hadn't been fistfighting aristocrats before her father had scooped them back up – but she'd always chalked that up to typical Britannian bigotry. From what Rivalz said, there could be more solid reasons for the surprisingly intense hatred their neighbors had always had for them – not to mention the hatred the Britannian maids at the Stadtfeld Manor had for her mother. "You think that would lead them to go on a rampage and start lynching people?"


Rivalz shrugged uncomfortably. "Not by itself, not... But if someone gave them permission, or got them all stirred up and led them here? Well... there's lots of angry Britannians who'd love to do this kind of thing."


"Very interesting..." Kallen looked at Rivalz with fresh eyes. At school he frequently acted like an idiot, obsessively following that bitch Milly around, begging like a puppy for scraps of attention, but here and now he seemed remarkably insightful. That said, Rivalz clearly didn't know anything substantial about the rioting that had broken out last night, nor had she expected him to. But I bet the soldiers know what happened – the outpost was definitely attacked last night, and judging by that triage site, they had casualties. Which means...


"Are you able to drive your motorcycle with your hands all cut up like that? We should get to the hospital to get your hands checked out." And while you're getting stitches, I'll bet there'll be lots of angry soldiers happy to tell a pretty girl about how strong and heroic they were last night.


"Yeah, I can still drive. I've hurt myself way worse when I was just learning." Rivalz smiled slightly at that, a hint of his usual cockiness returning along with the self-assurance. "But... I dunno about going to the hospital. I don't think my hands are that bad, honestly, and... I kinda just want to go home right now."


Kallen could understand that desire entirely. Tanya's support after her first kill and subsequent body disposal had been key, but she hadn't felt safe again until she was inside the comforting security of Naoto's embrace. That said... she needed to get to the hospital to try and talk to those soldiers as fast as possible, so she could get her report back to Tanya as quickly as possible. Sorry Rivalz... But anything for the Cause.


"What, you're just going to head home and bury your head back in the sand?" Kallen carefully modulated incredulity into her voice, with just a hint of disappointment. "You're free to go if you want, Rivalz, but you're not going to be able to escape from all this, not without leaving Area Eleven. You've seen the truth – good luck forgetting it now."


Satisfyingly, Rivalz's brow furrowed as he raised himself up to his full height. Yes, get angry! "I'm not running away, dammit! And that wasn't what I said I just... I can't do anything about that guy, just like you said, and I don't see how I can do jack shit for anybody else here!" He leaned forward, trying to use the height of his lanky frame to assert dominance, but Kallen was unmoved. It's the shorties you really need to watch out for. "And why the hell do you care, huh, Kallen? Why do you care what I'm gonna do? More importantly, how the hell are you being so calm about all this?!"


"This isn't my first time seeing a dead body, jackass!" Kallen shot back, practically nose to nose with Rivalz, glaring at him through his stupid goggles. "We need to get the story out! The people need to know what's happening here in Area Eleven! You just said you don't know what happened or why, and I sure don't know either – but remember the outpost? They were definitely attacked last night! They took casualties, and I bet the wounded went to the hospital! So that's where I'm going! Are you gonna help me or what?"


Rivalz glared back for a second, before clenching his teeth and nodding once. He stepped back and took a deep breath, and rubbed at his face. "You know that you're not gonna be able to publish any of this in the Ashford Gazette, right? Milly might have some weird tastes, but she's not gonna let you talk about"-He gestured vaguely at the vandalized shops and the hanging corpse silently observing their conversation-"in her school paper. Even if she doesn't stop you and you manage to bully the rest of the club along, the Principal is gonna shut you down."


Kallen let herself calm back down too. Time to be conciliatory. "I know, but... This is important to me, Rivalz. I want to make sure that this never happens again, and that means making sure everybody knows it happened this time, as well as finding out how it all started." She felt like she almost had him, just a bit more... "You want to know what you can do? Help me make sure this doesn't get swept under the rug by getting me to the hospital so I can get some interviews before someone tells the injured to keep their mouths shut."


"Fine." The word was curt, and Rivalz practically bit it off. "I'll get you to the hospital, but as soon as you're done there, I'm either taking you home or I'm out, got it?"


The trip to the hospital was thankfully uneventful, once Rivalz managed to carefully back his motorcycle away from the jammed intersection. Traffic was still light on Christmas morning, so shortly after the 10 o'clock chime, Rivalz turned onto the exit for the Princess Nunnally Memorial Hospital. The building was, even by Britannian standards, ostentatious, jutting out like a rococo tooth against the surrounding construction, ivory walls encrusted with architectural follies and statues of angels bearing swords and caduci. Despite the hospital's somehow frilly appearance, the building buzzed with activity; ambulances scooted past Knightmares emblazoned with the golden crown of the Royal Guard standing vigil at the entrances of the main lobby and the emergency room, while patrols of guards with the same emblem maintained a perimeter around the structure and got in the way of hustling doctors and medics.


Rivalz and Kallen were stopped halfway down the entrance road into the hospital's grounds, but between their obviously Britannian features and Rivalz's dripping red hands were quickly waved through. "I'd advise you to avoid the ER, sir." The guard said as he stepped back and waved them through. "It's currently swamped with casualties." The man, rebreather dangling around his neck, grimaced. "Disgraceful showing, that, and on Christmas Eve too! Anyway, if you go to the main lobby someone should be able to look at your hands fairly soon."


"Thank you, sir," Rivalz replied politely, while Kallen gave the royal guardsman her best vapid smile. "I appreciate it."


True to the guardsman's word, the lobby was nearly empty, with a receptionist keeping watch over twenty odd Britannians seated in the waiting area. To Kallen's delight, while most of the Britannians were civilians – some injured and waiting for discharge paperwork, others clearly waiting for family members – there were three soldiers scattered around the room as well. As Rivalz followed a nurse down a corridor, disappearing into the bowels of the hospital, Kallen made her way over the nearest soldier, a young man sporting both a private's single stripe and a neckbrace, plus a veritable turban of bandages securing a large pad to the left side of his head that completely covered his ear.


As Kallen approached the bandaged soldier, she realized with astonishment that she knew him; it was difficult to tell from a distance, thanks to the bandages, but the bandaged man was clearly the same young soldier who had bragged about his familiarity with the local brothels while Kallen had been waiting for an interview appointment with one of the outpost's officers. What the hell was his name? J-something, I think... Carefully, Kallen flipped open her phone and activated an audio recording app before sliding it back into her jacket pocket.


"Hey there," Kallen chirped as she dropped into the seat across from the bandaged man. "What happened to you?"


"Eh?" The soldier boy jerked back in surprise, before blinking and peering at her through bruised eyes. Kallen noticed one of his eyes didn't quite seem to be tracking her and kept drifting off over her shoulder. "Hey, you're that reporter chick! I remember you from last week, right? What're you doin' here?"


"My friend needed a few stitches – fell on some glass." Kallen smiled and shook her head. "It doesn't look too bad. What happened to you?"


"Shit, it's a long story." The boy tried for a smile, but winced as his left cheek tugged at the adhesive tape holding the pad in place. "Just a hell of an awful night. Why? You gonna write about it?"


"Well..." Kallen made a show of pulling a pocket pad and pen from her jacket's inner pocket and flipping the pad open. "I'm always down for a good story... And you look like you've got an incredible story to tell, tiger." As she spoke, Kallen drew on her memories of Milly Ashford and made a show of looking him up and down, letting her eyes slowly trace up his legs as she leaned forward slightly, somewhat regretting the buttoned up dress shirt she'd opted to wear today, topping the coquettish display off with a wink. "Looks like you've had it rough – but I should just look at the other guy, right?"


Predictably, the Ashford-like appeal, subtle as a sledgehammer, was more than enough to loosen the man's tongue. Guess the head injury didn't actually hit anything important – he clearly doesn't think with that head.


"So, one of my buddy's was out late, yeah? He had leave, so he went to have a good time. Anyway, sometime late last night there was a big punch-up between those Purist bastards and the rest of us, right? Well, some of those fuckwits got deep-sixed, but after the police broke it all up, they started goin' around yelling that they'd been attacked by Honorary Britannians – in uniform! - with knives, and that the Honorary Britannians had been there to rape Britannian girls, and that's why the fight had started! Stupid, right? But get this – the police totally bought it! None of the Purists got arrested last night, but I heard that, like... fifty or sixty of us regulars did! It's total bullshit!"


Kallen nodded appreciatively, jotting down notes as she listened. So the police sided with the Purists, huh? Well, they're definitely richer than rank and file soldiers... And if they were alleging it was in the defense of women, well... They've got the whole chivalry bullshit thing...


"Anyway, my buddy said that while the police were busy screwin' around, the Purists started saying that this was just the first step, and that the Honorary Britannians were gonna rise up and rape and kill all of us and set up their own Area Administration! Fuckin' stupidest shit I've ever heard!" The soldier had begun to lean forward, cheeks flushing red as he began to speed up, before wincing and leaning back.


"Anyway..." The soldier took a calming breath, and deliberately slowed himself down. "Anyway, all the idiot civvies that were also goin' to the bars and the brothels and stuff started rallying around the Purists and calling their friends over, and soon enough bad shit started happening. My buddy hauled ass back to our outpost, so we had some warning. The Old Man doubled the gate guard, and issued guns to the Honorary Britannians. I was out there with a few of my buddies, watching over the vehicle gate. Y'know why I know that whole Purist line is a crock of shit? Because I'm buddies with a few Honoraries, and Andrew and Keith didn't look like they were about to start murderin' us even when the Captain gave 'em guns and ammo."


Kallen nodded again, making approving sounds as she scribbled down notes as fast as she could, blazing through page after page of notebook paper.


"Anyway, a whole mob of the bastards showed up, waving torches and baseball bats and swords and shit. Y'know what the really stupid part of all of this was? We had guns, but we weren't allowed to use 'em or even load 'em until we got the order to do so! So we've got this mob of assholes comin' up the street and we're not allowed to fire any warning shots or even close the gate!" The soldier had begun to accelerate again, but stopped and took another deep breath. "Stupid, stupid, stupid. But they started off polite enough – they just asked permission to come on base. The lieutenant who was in charge of the gate wanted to let them on through, but the Captain came out himself and told 'em that the base was a restricted area, and none of 'em would be comin' in. One of the Purists said they'd heard that rebel Honorary Britannian troops were musterin' here, and the fact the Honoraries on guard had guns was proof of it. And that's when they stopped bein' polite."


The soldier lifted a hand and pointed at his head. "They grabbed Andrew and pulled him out into the street. I tried to haul him back, but one of 'em whacked me in the head with somethin'. I woke up in the middle of the quad with one of the medics shinin' a light in my eyes. I don't know what happened after that, but I heard gunfire a couple of times. Guess the Captain finally gave permission. Anyway..." He shrugged, and winced. "That's all I know. Hope that's helpful."


"It really is," Kallen fervently affirmed. "This is a huge help. It sounds like you were really brave... I'm sorry, I'm totally blanking on your name."


"Jacques. Jacques Helgelien." Jacques smiled with the right side of his mouth. "Pleased to meet you, Miss...?"


"Stadtfeld. Kallen Stadtfeld." Kallen quickly scribbled down Private Jacques Helgelien in the margin of her notes. Taking a quick look up, she saw Rivalz emerge from the hallway, a fresh bandage wound around his left hand. She turned back to notebook, and quickly wrote her "student" phone number down on an unused page and tore it out. "Here, this is my number – call me if you remember anything else." She leaned forward and pressed the page into his hand. "And, Jacques? I think it's really impressive that you stood up for your buddies like that – Honorary Britannian or not. You did good."


Jacques smiled again as Kallen got to her feet. "If I'd known standin' up to those Purists fuckmuppets would get me pretty girls' phone numbers, I'd've started doin' it way earlier. See ya around, maybe?"


The hopeful note was obvious, and Kallen gave him a smile that was halfway sincere. He did get hurt trying to help a Honorary Britannian – a Japanese. Guess not every Britannian can be a total bastard. "Maybe. Heal up fast first, though!"


Kallen turned and left Jacques behind on his waiting room chair, joining Rivalz as he waited by the door to the hospital. "How's the hand doing?" Kallen asked by way of greeting as she pushed the door open and held it for Rivalz.


"Not too bad – turns out, stitches aren't too bad once they've got you all numbed up." Rivalz followed Kallen outside, blinking in the sunlight. "Honestly, the worst part was the tugging sensation when they... Well, y'know."


Kallen nodded. "Yeah, I can see that feeling pretty weird." She paused. "Wait, they gave you an anesthetic?"


"Yeah, but just the local stuff." Rivalz blushed and looked away. "The nurse said she didn't want me to act like a baby while the doc was stitching me up..."


Kallen resisted the temptation to laugh. "Well, I'm glad they took good care of you. But, that probably means you shouldn't be driving, right?"


Rivalz fiddled with his helmet, which he carried in his less damaged hand. "Well, they did say something about waiting fifteen minutes or so, but I'm pretty sure I'm okay..."


I should probably get back home so I can make my report to Tanya as soon as possible... But today's gone bad enough already that driving with a numb hand feels like taunting fate. "Don't worry, I've got time," Kallen assured Rivalz, smiling reassuringly as she held up her notebook. "I'll just take some time to get my notes cleaned up while the medicine wears off."


Rivalz shrugged. "If you want. I think I saw a vending machine back in the lobby, so I'm gonna get myself something to drink – you want anything?"


As Rivalz wandered off in search of refreshments, Kallen made her way towards the currently deserted bus stop at the edge of the hospital's patient drop-off area. Thanks to the currently halted public transportation system, she found the kiosk deserted and the bench completely free of any nosy onlookers. Taking a seat and checking that she was out of sight from the hospital entrance, she pulled out her phone and terminated the recording, before starting the playback. Thankfully, despite the phone's concealed location in her pocket and the frequent interruptions of the hospital intercom, Jacques's responses were still clearly audible. I'll have to figure out some way to clip it up... I wonder if my laptop at home has any audio editing software?


Kallen was startled from her musings by the sound of raised voices coming from the parking lot. "I don't care what yer here tah do! Prince Clovis has given the order – no press!" Pocketing her phone again, Kallen peered out around the wall of the bus shelter, and saw a blond man standing in front of a truck marked with the logo of a local news channel arguing with one of the royal guards. "So you'd better get back in yer truck and go back out the way yah came before I come back here with the sergeant, got it?"


"And I keep telling you that I've got permission to enter!" The blond replied, volume just below a yell but clearly testy. "The studio cleared it with the Administration three days ago – it's just a human interest piece, it's got nothing to do with... whatever the Prince is worried about."


"No. Press." The guard was unmoved. "Not today. Come back tomorrow, I don't care. Just get yer damned truck out of my parking lot."


"Fine." Wisely, the man decided to capitulate. "I'll get the cameras loaded back up, and we'll be on our way."


"Good. You'd better be gone by the time the next patrol comes through in ten minutes." Satisfied, the guard continued on what Kallen supposed was his patrol route through the parking lot.


This is it! Between the pictures and the interview...! Sensing opportunity, Kallen grabbed her notebook and darted out of the bus stop, jogging over towards the news truck and slowing as she approached. The blond man had turned around and was apparently directing two considerably less well dressed Britannians as they loaded crush-proof plastic boxes that Kallen could only assume contained camera gear back into the truck. Not lifting a finger himself... And a ponytail, really? Ugh...


Kallen slowed to a walk as she came up behind him. "Excuse me? Mister? Why were you trying to get into the hospital?"


The man spun on his heel, long bangs and ponytail flapping, a flash of surprise and annoyance briefly visible before vanishing under a plastic expression and a vaguely condescending smile. "Hmm? Why do you think?" The smile slipped for a moment, and Kallen caught a glimpse of irritated anger before the mask returned, although the smile was decidedly sharper as the blond apparently decided she was nobody of consequence, and thus a perfect target to take out his frustration on."I'm trying to do my job as a reporter! Something happened last night, and nobody's talking about it. The Prince is trying to keep it all quiet, which means it must be interesting indeed. As a journalist and a producer, my job is to present history to the masses as it unfolds, but thanks to these damned guards I can't get anywhere close enough to anybody who knows anything to even ask for an interview!"


"Well, lucky for you, I just came from the hospital," Kallen replied, interrupting the ongoing rant, and held up her notebook. "And wouldn't you know it, I'm a student reporter with my school paper and I just got an interview with a soldier who was wounded during the action last night – I've got my notes, and I've got it all taped too."


The mask didn't slip this time and the oily smile remained firmly in place, but Kallen noticed the way the self-described journalist's eyes widened with poorly-hidden surprise. "A school paper, huh?" he scoffed incredulously. "And you conducted an interview with a soldier? Wonderful." He shook his head with disdain, the smile taking a turn for the patronizing. "Do you really think your little club newspaper is going to print any of it – or that your school's administration would allow it if you tried?"


Kallen, recognizing that the man was deliberately trying to get her angry, clamped down on her desire to pound the smug bastard's flawless teeth into his skull, and instead forced herself to smile back at him – and if that smile was a tad bit smug, which she was reasonably certain hurt worse than a fist to the mouth, well, smugness was the preserve of young nobles wherever the Britannian flag flew. "Probably not – but I couldn't just let the story go untold either. Plus"-Kallen dropped the smile-"as soon as I saw the smoke rising this morning, I just had to know more."


The man's expression had gradually smoothed out as Kallen spoke, and as she wound up he offered a nod of mild respect that didn't reach his calculating eyes. "And now you've got an interview you can't do anything with," he concluded, much to Kallen's relief. Thank God I didn't have to propose the idea myself. "Perhaps we could help each other out?"


Kallen gave a tentative nod, squashing down both the personal gratification and the budding nervousness. This guy's a total shark – I'd better count my fingers when I'm done with him – but if I can get the word of what happened last night out in the open like this... A little extra bait first. "Perhaps we can – and before I got here, I took a trip through the Honorary Britannian neighborhoods where the... events... last night happened. I've got some photos that might interest you too." And now, the offer. "Look, mister...?"


"Reid. Diethard Reid, with Hi-TV."


"Look, Mister Reid, I really want to develop my skills as a journalist, but I'm having problems." Kallen remembered the resentment Reid had shown at the restrictions put in place by the Administration. "I didn't do a good job playing the political game with the rest of the student paper's staff, especially the editor," she 'admitted' in a heavy, despondent voice. "So I've been stuck with all kinds of boring stories and puff pieces – nothing I can really sink my teeth into."


Diethard smiled at that. "Tragic!" he proclaimed, voice dripping with cynical pity. "Truly tragic to see an enterprising young reporter brought down like that. But!" He theatrically raised his eyebrows, as if he'd just been struck by a marvelous inspiration. "But I could see my way clear to giving you some tips, one journalist to another." He slid a hand into his jacket and Kallen tensed slightly, but he only pulled out a business card. "Here's my card – it's got my personal email on it. Send me a sample of your articles, and I'll see what I can do, along with your interview notes, the recording, and those pictures." He smiled as Kallen took the card. "Who knows, if those notes are good enough and the articles aren't too terrible, I'll maybe talk to a few people and see if I can't get you listed as a stringer for a few publications I know."


Asshole. "Sure – I'll shoot you an email as soon as I get home. Just - use the damned things, alright? Make sure everybody can see what happened. It'll get lots of interest, I promise."


Diethard smirked. "I'll be the judge of that, Miss...?"


"Cardemonde." Kallen replied immediately with the first name that came to mind. No need to let this piece of shit know anything about me. "Kallen Cardemonde."


"Uh huh. Sure. Well, I'll be waiting on your email." Diethard waved, before turning on his heel and walking back towards his truck. "Don't be a stranger now!"


Feeling in dire need of a thorough handwashing, Kallen shoved the card into her pocket, next to her phone, and retreated back to the hospital's entrance, walking past yet another patrolling soldier as she exited the parking lot. Rivalz was waiting for her near the entrance to the main lobby, soda can in hand, and as soon as he saw her coming he chugged down the remaining contents of the can and pitched it into a nearby garbage can.


"Where'd you wander off, Kallen?" Rivalz asked by way of greeting. "I leave for a second to get something to drink, and when I turn around, your ass is gone."


"Sorry." Kallen smiled apologetically at Rivalz, but surprisingly this tried and true tactic failed to soften the boy's frown. Guess the pain from the anesthetic wearing off makes it hard to be hormonal. "I saw someone who looked like they needed some help."


Rivalz shook his head with irritation. "Well, I hope they really needed help with... Whatever it was they needed, because I'm running late now."


"Running late?" Oh yeah, he said he had an appointment of some kind when he picked me up...


Rivalz scowled. "Yeah, running late. And as much as I'd like to just go home and try to forget about this whole fucking day, I'm not gonna leave my buddy hanging." Kallen tried to look as apologetic as possible, and Rivalz unbent slightly with an exasperated sigh. "Look... I'm meeting him at the front gates of Ashford. I heard from the TV in the lobby that they're startin' to reopen some of the trains in the outer neighborhoods, so you can catch a train home from there, right?"


Kallen hastily checked her mental map of the train routes. "Well... If the J train's running..."


"Great." Rivalz dropped the helmet onto his head and started walking towards the parking lot Kallen had just come from. "In that case, I'll drop you off at Ashford. Let's get outta here."


Kallen pursed her lips, almost swaying at the sudden spike of anger. Does he think he's the only one who had a bad day?! That I'm not upset about finding a brutally murdered man too? Dammit, I had to talk to a fucking journalist too! Rivalz's back was turned towards her, and he was unquestionably weaker than her... Kallen took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and let it go, taking the angry heat with it. Calm down – he's had a very bad day. He was traumatized. More importantly, you've got a job to do and he's got the motorcycle. Be a professional, and don't embarrass yourself. Calmly, Kallen followed Rivalz to the motorcycle, slipping into the sidecar and quietly donning her helmet.


The ride to Ashford Academy was, in fact, entirely quiet. Traffic had begun to pick up as Christmas morning masses let out and prosperous Britannian family's started heading out for brunches and lunches; the need for Rivalz to focus on the increased traffic volume gave both riders an excuse to ignore the other and brood over their own thoughts.


Kallen was glumly certain that, even now, teams of street sweepers, tow truck operators, and handymen of various descriptions were repairing the damage of last night, hiding black scorching under fresh white paint and towing twisted and broken cars off to the salvage yard. Soon, the only evidence of the events of last night would be in the memories of those who had perpetrated the violence and those who had survived it to bear witness. And in the pictures I'll be sending to Diethard. I hope he finds a way to get them on TV. The thought made Kallen smile just a bit. The Britannians were awfully fond of slapping a fresh coat of paint over their atrocities – or in the case of Old Tokyo, building a shining new city on the grave of the old – but it would be damned hard to wipe away the lynched Britannian soldier's face from the collective memory of the viewers.


Kallen smiled to herself, imagining the storm of panic and futile rage that would sweep through the Viceregal Palace in such an event. No amount of impassioned speeches and pretty words from the Prince would ever extinguish the embers of doubt that twisted face would kindle in the hearts of Britannians and Honorary Britannians alike. She closed her eyes and savored the image of an occupation turned against itself, as the servants suddenly realized that there truly could never be peace with the monsters from beyond the sea. And as soon as the Honorary Britannians realize that, no Britannian will be able to so much as drink a cup of tea without wondering if it's been poisoned! Kallen's lips twitched, and she daydreamed about her stepmother realizing only too late that the white powder she'd spooned into her tea hadn't been sugar after all. As soon as the old bitch dies, all those bastard Brit servants who hurt Mom are the next to go!


Soon enough, Rivalz slowed to a stop once again, turning his engine off and dismounting from the bike. Kallen forced her eyes open, surprised at how tired she already was when it wasn't quite noon, and pulled her borrowed helmet and goggles off, leaving them in the sidecar as she clambered to her feet. Rivalz hadn't waited around for her, and instead was animatedly talking to a boy Kallen vaguely recognized as Lelouch Lamperouge, Vice President of the Ashford Student Council and, according to the gossip, the premier heartthrob of the Academy.


Kallen had never spoken with Lelouch personally, even though they shared a few classes – even when she'd been working on establishing her network of gossips, she'd avoided speaking with him. He was silent and brooding, only speaking in class when called upon and never volunteering any answers, but somehow gave off an impression of incredible arrogance, and somehow seemed ignorant of how wherever he went in Ashford, a current of attention and hushed conversations followed. He was, in fact, part of the reason why Kallen had thankfully never had to deal with the Student Council as part of her club duties – all the male members of the club wanted to take the work so they could ogle Milly (for some reason), and all the other female members were equally desperate to take on the extra job so they could drool over Lelouch.


Frankly, Kallen couldn't understand the appeal. To her, he seemed mentally aloof and physically weak. The perfect young Britannian noble – honestly, he's a perfect match for Milly. They deserve each other.


However personally distasteful Kallen found the young noble, she found herself reluctantly impressed at how, with the rise of a single inquisitive brow on an otherwise emotionless face, he managed to reduce Rivalz to a self-justifying babble as the other boy attempted to explain away his tardiness – unnecessarily, in Kallen's opinion, since Rivalz was the one providing the service. Is he really that embarrassed? Still emotionally volatile from this morning? Or does Lelouch have some kind of hold on him? If so... What does he know, and why is he using it today...?


As Kallen mulled the possibilities over, trying her best to bring all of her intelligence gathering skills to bear as she smiled politely and dutifully waited to be introduced, Rivalz began to garble his way through an account of the last two hours.


"Look, it's not my fault I'm late, Lelouch - I didn't oversleep this time, promise!" Rivalz spoke so fast he tripped over his words, while Lelouch remained pointedly unexpressive, although the second eyebrow began to ascend to join its comrade. "See, I got a call this morning from this girl - Kallen, Kallen Stadtfeld, do you know her? - who had my number because I helped with her volunteer organization thingy and she needed a ride because the public transit was all shut down and I thought it would be short so I helped her out! B-but…" Rivalz's voice halted and slowed to a stop, and he made a choking noise deep in his throat. Kallen felt a flicker of worry, but he took a deep breath and continued a second later. "But… Oh man… Buddy, shit went bad in the Concession yesterday. You might wanna call your contact and make sure the game's still on… Oh man, there's… It's really bad, man." Rivalz's flow of words tapered to another three or four second halt, before he visibly forced himself to continue. "Anyway, as soon as I realized I was running late, I got here as soon as I could. And, uh… that's why I'm late."


To his credit, at some point during the semi-coherent explanation, Lelouch's impassive expression had thawed to a degree; as Rivalz finally spluttered his conclusion, Kallen realized Lelouch had an expression of acute concern, though whether for his friend's wellness or in regards to the news he brought she couldn't tell. Then, a moment later, a pair of startlingly violet eyes darted over to her and the look of honest concern vanished like it had never been, replaced by an amiable mask.


Kallen was somewhat surprised at how obviously false that welcoming smile was, how it entirely failed to reach those intense purple eyes... Those eyes, full of an utterly terrifying intelligence and a charisma that burned like a bonfire, compared to which her brother's magnetic draw seemed like a candle... Suddenly, Kallen found herself entranced by those eyes, as if the entire world, Rivalz and the Academy included, had fallen away, leaving only herself and Lelouch Lamperouge. They're the wrong color, but... somehow, he's got Tanya's eyes... But that was wrong too, because even Tanya at her most dazzling didn't have the supreme confidence that practically dripped from those eyes, and even Tanya at her angriest didn't have that blazing coal of complete and total insanity Kallen could see burning in the heart of those beautiful, soulful, mad eyes...


And then, Lelouch blinked, and the moment was gone. Kallen nearly staggered back, but threw herself into her noble persona, drowning Kozuki Kallen in the gossip-hound Kallen Stadtfeld. She smiled prettily as Lelouch approached her, and politely accepted his handshake, proffering the back of her hand for a kiss as she followed the memories of her etiquette training by rote, desperate to hide any crumb of individuality somewhere far away where this monster and his horrible eyes wouldn't see it. Why is someone like this bothering with school? What the hell is he going off with Rivalz to do, on today of all days?


Lelouch smiled knowingly at her, and for a moment Kallen's heart skipped a beat. What does he know?! What did Milly tell him? "Well, I can certainly understand being late when such a beautiful girl calls for assistance." He chuckled with amusement, and Kallen dutifully tittered along, wondering why speaking with a fellow student was making her feel more uncomfortable than looking at the hanging man earlier had. He knows... God, it's because he knows, he knows...! He's toying with me, just like Milly! "It's nice to meet you, Kallen. I've heard good things about you from Milly – she seems to find you quite... Interesting." Lelouch's lip rose in a sardonic smile as he emphasized the last word, and Kallen smiled back, ignoring the feeling of a phantom rope around her neck tightening.


"It's good to meet you too, Lelouch, at long last. You're the Vice-President of the Student Council, right?" Kallen let the small talk flow, doing her best to ask obvious questions and offer noncommittal answers and vague comments, desperate to survive without betraying any more of her secrets than she feared this stranger wearing the face of a boy already knew.


After a short yet excruciating eternity, Lelouch finally appeared to tire of toying with her, and "begged her pardon" so he could get to his "prior appointment". Without letting a shred of the sudden relief surging through her escape, Kallen bid him good luck and a good day, even curtseying as etiquette dictated, forgetting that she was wearing pants. Fortunately, instead of calling her out on her faux paus, Lelouch anticlimactically hopped in the sidecar and left, Rivalz speeding off down the road far above the posted limit.


Kallen let herself sag against the brick wall belting the Ashford Academy grounds, letting the tension flow out of her into the ground. A moment of relaxation and a deep breath later, and she was back on her feet, phone in hand as she began to trot towards the nearest maglev station. Tanya needs to know about the lynchings – that could change everything with the Honoraries! - and I need to get the pictures off to Diethard before the five o'clock news! ...And if I stay around here too long, that creepy bastard might come back... Kallen sped up, driving the urge to shiver with discomfort into her feet as she accelerated. All for the Cause, Kallen, all for the Cause... And, hey, at least he didn't try to grab me... Unlike Milly... Scowling, Kallen brought the phone to her ear, ready to deliver her initial verbal report.

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 17: A Training Arc (Part 1)

(Removed to conform with Rule 8.


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


It took almost a week to hear back from Kyoto House, after the Christmas Debacle. Frankly, I was somewhat surprised to hear back from them at all, considering the disastrous outcome of our mission. It was tempting to pass the blame onto the Six Houses – after all, I had only decided to attempt the murder of Britannians because of their testing objective – but passing the buck is a sign of poor leadership and unprofessionalism, and so I had refrained from doing so, even internally. At least, as soon as the initial shock from Kallen's telephoned report had worn off.


I still had a hard time believing it. Not because I doubted Kallen's information, and certainly not because I doubted the Britannians would happily murder any Japanese, Honorary status be damned, given half a chance; I had just expected better from an empire that ruled nearly half of the entire world. I could only imagine what General Zettour would have said, if a mob of off-duty Germanian soldiers had run rampant over a friendly population – and just imagining what Colonel Lehgen would have done made me wince.


While the Britannians were unquestionably cruel in a way that far surpassed the cold ruthless calculus of the General Staff, I had honestly expected their apparent cultural emphasis on chivalry and "honorable" public conduct to prevent mass reprisals against the Honorary Britannians. I had known that reprisals were possible, and that legal reprisals against a handful of scapegoats were all but guaranteed, but I'd considered the prospect of full on mob violence the worst case scenario, an improbable outcome. And, while I had expected smashed windows and mass beatings as part of that worst case outcome... I hadn't expected the torture. When the Britannians had conducted their reprisals in the ghetto, it was a cold affair, for the most part. Sure, some soldiers laughed at the weeping and pleading relatives of the unlucky Numbers plucked from the crowd, and some of the self-appointed executioners smiled, clearly enjoying their work, but the killings themselves were quick – up against a wall, a bullet, and an imperious "Next!" Kallen's photography depicted an entirely different degree of horror, one that fell quantitatively short of the mass executions in the ghetto, but far exceeded those murders when judged on quality.


Moving beyond the sheer sadism unleashed by the Britannian horde, whipped into a frenzy and led by off-duty soldiers of the Purist Faction, the economic impact of the Christmas Incident had to have been vast. I lacked access to any economic data for the Area, or to any data that described the total losses, but from Kallen's first hand account and from reports the Rising Sun had received from Eleven streetcleaners, electricians, plumbers, and construction workers brought in to clean up after the mess and repair the salvageable structures, the damage was immense. Likely millions of pounds worth of property value had been wiped out in hours, not to mention the multitude of knock-on effects from shops primarily patronized by Honorary Britannians losing profits, lost wages... and considering the predatory nature of the Area's courts, and how deeply in bed they obviously were with moneyed nobles, I doubted that any Honorary Britannian who sunk into debt as a result of the pogrom would retain their land. The chances that any of the victims would win any civil claims against identified rioters were likewise slim.


This later point had brought my thoughts back to Kyoto as I tried to map out the likely impacts of the disaster. I had no idea how deep or far the tendrils of the organization had sunk into the society of Area 11, but as the most wealthy of the Honorary Britannians – as well as the core of the old elite of pre-war Japan – I was certain that the Six Houses of Kyoto had probably invested heavily into the Honorary Britannian neighborhoods of the Tokyo Settlement. If their investments had been lost and client businesses smashed up as a result of the riot my lack of forethought had inadvertently provoked, I could easily see them dropping any support for the Kozuki Organization. I had honestly expected that as rumor upon rumor of uncontrolled fires and looted shops had spread through the ghetto. My real fear had been that Kyoto, in a fit of pique, would leverage its resources against us, either taking direct revenge on us or handing us over to the Britannians as the true killers of three Purist soldiers.


So, I'd immediately started making amends. As the reports of families being driven from their homes with nothing but the clothes on their backs – if they were lucky – began to drift in, I saw an opportunity to make a concrete apology to Kyoto House and to soothe my own guilt. I had tasked Nagata, Aina, Ohgi, and the newly arrived Kallen - still in her Britannian clothes – with driving the rented truck into the Tokyo Settlement with a full load for a change. They'd set up two of our portable kerosene fueled stoves in a park where several hundred of the newly homeless Honorary Britannians had fled for lack of anywhere else to go and had started conducting a typical Rising Sun dinner as best they could, considering the outdoor location. They'd taken a significant portion of the spare second-hand clothing we'd had available for distribution too, as well as all the pre-packed daily food boxes we had on hand. The reaction to my orders had been decidedly mixed; most of the group seemed at the very least willing to do as I said – Kallen and Naoto had both been happy, at least, and Ohgi had looked pleased, even after I'd asked him to stop ruffling my hair – but Chihiro had looked infuriated.


"They're our enemies, dammit!" I had just been thankful she'd chosen to explode while we were still in the Kozuki Organization's secret basement, instead of opting for a more public display. "They're traitors, Tanya! Just as bad as the fucking Brits themselves! Why the fuck are you giving them our damned supplies? We should be taking the chance to hit them while they're down!"


I had let the words hang in the air, face impassive as I met Chihiro's eyes. She had been panting, as if her shuddering breaths indicated the difficulty of merely keeping herself in check. Then, slowly and deliberately, I'd broken eye contact and looked around the room, evaluating the mood amongst those present. Nobody else had seemed particularly ready to stand up and support Chihiro – Souichiro in particular had looked incensed – but everybody had been staring at me, clearly waiting for my response. Shit! How do I justify this to terrorists? This is the wrong audience for altruism, but I can't tell them about Kyoto House – especially since we haven't made a deal yet!


"Is that really what you think we should be doing, Chihiro?" I had asked, buying time. I'd barely noticed her eager nod, as I'd been keeping my eyes on the broader audience just as much as on the zealot burning up with righteous fury in front of me. Fucking fanatics. I wish I could slap the stupid out of each and every one. "In that case, you are a fool." As she blanched with fury, I had continued, suddenly understanding exactly how I'd justify our need to soothe our secret backers. "The Honorary Britannians were bought and paid for by our enemies, that is true. But! The Britannians have just attacked them with, as the Honoraries are sure to see it, absolutely no provocation. They've just been kicked to the curb, Chihiro, which means that purchased loyalty is weak right now. Easy to undermine. The Britannians have done our work for us by driving off the Honorary Britannians – now, we need to put in our own bid for their loyalty."


"Loyalty?!" Chihiro had spat. "What the fuck do those bastards know about loyalty? They spit on Japan with everything they do, every breath they take! They have no loyalty except to their own skins!"


"Maybe," I allowed, "but the Britannians just tried to flay those skins away. They'll go back and lick their cruel master's hand eventually, like the beaten dogs that they are – but before they do that, if we can help them out under the guise of the Rising Sun while they're weak, while they're hurting from the kick in the ribs, well... Chihiro, who do you think we're fighting?"


"The Britannians!"


"Correct. The Britannians. Not the Honorary Britannians. And if we can make inroads on their loyalty now, well..." I had smiled at Chihiro, deliberately showing as many teeth as I could. To my pleasure, she'd taken a step back. Remember this, Chihiro. "How many knives in the dark can I buy now, at bargain basement prices? How many friendly fire accidents? How many cups of afternoon tea spiked with arsenic?" I had taken a step forward, and had reached up and given Chihiro a friendly clap on the shoulder. "This isn't charity, Chihiro, make no mistake – I'm buying us friends on the other side for cheap. I'm sure my investment will yield fruit soon enough."


That conversation six days ago had been off the cuff and speculative in nature. If I were being entirely frank, I had been trying to retroactively justify my humanitarian impulses, and had been more or less laying out the best case scenario. I knew that gratitude had a remarkably short shelf life, and I doubted that a few bowls of soup and some second-hand jackets would mean much to a group not locked into a hand-to-mouth existence like the residents of Shinjuku were. I had not expected much of a return on my investment, beyond the satisfaction in knowing that I had done what I could to make up for my mistakes.


In light of everything that had passed since my brief meeting with the man from Kyoto, the phone call was confusing, to say the least.


"Well done, Miss Hawthorne." A familiar voice greeted me from the tinny speakers of the burner phone. "My superiors have received your message; they had suspected you might have had a hand in inciting the unpleasantness on Christmas Eve, but claiming credit by passing information through a Britannian reporter was inspired. Personally, I'm shocked Hi-TV showed that photograph on the news, even with the face blurred out."


"Thank you. I hope this counts as a concrete achievement," I responded smoothly, smiling politely at the wall in front of me as my mind whirled. A reporter? I never contacted a reporter! ...Wait, are they talking about the guy Kallen handed her information off to? Is that how they learned of my involvement?!


The bastard chuckled, somehow almost as condescending over the phone as he had been in person. "It certainly counted for something. You truly don't do anything halfway, do you?"


"Any job worth doing is worth doing well." The banality slipped out easily as I tried to figure out what the man on the other end of the line was implying. Did Kyoto believe that the riot had been my intention all along? It was hard to figure out what else he could mean, since knifing three random men hardly counted as a masterful counterstroke. Time to layer in some propaganda to burnish my credentials further. "Especially when the end goal is the prosperity and liberty of all Japanese."


"Quite," the dry voice replied, making it clear what its owner thought about such war aims. "Regardless, in light of both your recent success and the actions you took in the follow-up, we have decided to extend limited support to your organization." There was a pause. "The key word is limited, though. Some of our membership is... dubious about taking you on as a new client, as we are already supporting a number of other groups."


"Understood." I truly did understand. The Kyoto Group were walking a thin line here, supporting Japanese insurgents while simultaneously mining Sakuradite and producing weaponry for the Britannians. I was certain that they were extremely careful doling out just enough resources to keep Area Eleven at a simmer without actually giving the various rebel groups enough oxygen to truly set the country on fire. Considering the outcome of the Christmas Incident and the conservative nature of the two-faced oligarchs sitting in Kyoto, I would just consider myself lucky that they hadn't already written off the Kozuki Organization, myself included, as too risky an investment. "In that case, I'm already prepared to request your organization's assistance."


"Oh?" The man sounded mildly surprised. Had he really expected me to be unprepared, even when he was calling me at four in the morning? I'm just glad the phone didn't wake up Ohgi – I'm tired of getting nagged about my sleep schedule. "Well, let's hear it. What do you want?"


"We need training space and material, preferably outside the Greater Tokyo Area." My request was somewhat blunt, but I figured it was time to get down to brass tacks. "We're experiencing something of a recruitment spike at the moment, but lack the training facilities and equipment to actually put all of the new recruits to work."


Honestly, I was understating the current scope of our difficulties. Only a few hours after the last of the fires in the trashed Honorary Britannian neighborhoods had guttered out, the clean up process had begun. Plenty of Elevens, hungry and cold in Shinjuku, had leapt at the suddenly available jobs – not to mention Concession Work Permits – that various Britannian companies had posted at the labor exchanges and at the checkpoints into the ghetto. I could only assume that the companies involved were either the holding companies that had acted as the Honorary Britannians' landlords, or were the lucky winners of whatever contract bidding process the Administration had conducted. Regardless, any Japanese with experience as a builder, a roofer, a plumber, or an electrician had been snapped up and put to work patching up damaged buildings, while lots of unskilled men and women had found work as street cleaners, toting and hauling rubble and salvage as the Britannians desired.


Besides pouring a bit of money, scant though the wages were, into the Shinjuku economy and thankfully feeding all the employed Elevens for at least a few days, the sudden employment spike had also given many of those in Shinjuku a first hand view of renewed Britannian savagery. While this reminder was scarcely needed, since most of us lived in structures that still bore the marks of the Conquest, it had badly scared plenty of Elevens. "If this could happen to the ones who played by Britannia's rules now, years after the Conquest, what would they do to us?" was the question on everybody's lips in the streets of Shinjuku – the dull complacency strengthened by slow starvation and exacerbated by the sheer hopelessness of our situation had been shaken by the prospect of a more immediately tortuous death.


And as scared people do, plenty of the Elevens who had gone into the Concession during the clean-up process had looked for answers, for reassurance. Many of those seekers had beaten a path to the Rising Sun's door as soon as they had gotten back to Shinjuku; from there, the more determined or angry Japanese were taken aside by Inoue, Chihiro or Tamaki. All said, in the last week the Kozuki Organization had abruptly gained a pool of almost three hundred eager recruits, an abundance of warm bodies that were currently useless to us without training and equipment.


This sudden embarrassment of recruits was already turning into something of a double-edged sword. Our previous training cohorts had been limited – the four former gangsters under Tamaki, and four of the formerly enslaved women under Chihiro. Even that small number had strained our capacity to arm and train; the idea of training almost fifty times that number in the cramped basement hideout was ludicrous.


The sound of the man from Kyoto sucking air through his teeth came down the line, which made me wince. I remembered enough from my first life to know that a salaryman making that noise was about to either consult with his manager, or give you bad news. Fortunately for me, it was the former. "I'll have to get back to you on that," he finally said. "That's... both considerably more and less than what we were anticipating from your first request."


This time, the wince wasn't just the twitching of half-forgotten reflexes – it was a full cringe, brought about by the knowledge that I had just made a mistake. Dammit! I overestimated our value in their eyes and asked for far too much! I've just conceded the initiative and made him think I'm a fool! Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to pay attention to the remainder of the ramblings coming down the line.


"I'll have to check with management about the details. That said..." The Kyoto man paused, hmm-ing into the phone for a moment. He's just toying with me at this point, the bastard! "That said, I think we should be able to fulfill your request, at least partially." What?! "One of our organization's other partners has a significant amount of hidden enclaves in the rural and alpine provinces. I'm sure that they could be convinced to allow you to use one such enclave as a training camp. That said..." Here comes the other shoe, dammit... "My organization is only going to provide limited logistical support and supplies for this training operation of yours. You will have to prove your continued worth in order to earn our continued support."


I should have known. The Six Houses of Kyoto had maintained their fortunes and their power by making themselves invaluable to the Britannian Administration and the insurgent factions alike. They would never give support without making sure plenty of strings were attached. Forcing me to negotiate with other groups competing for Kyoto's backing in order to actually make use of said support neatly demonstrated that tactical diplomacy. They'd fulfilled their end of the bargain, or at least they would claim they had, and forcing me to grovel for scraps from their "partners" just to keep day to day operations up meant it'd be unlikely that I'd be able to cut Kyoto's strings any time soon.


Unless they've been pulling this maneuver on all the groups they support... In which case, I just need them to see that we're not competing for a single suitor, but facing a common foe...


I kept that mutinous thought in mind as I ran through the proper thankful courtesies and expressed my urgent desire to hear back from Kyoto as soon as my interlocutor could consult his superiors. That part, at least, wasn't feigned; idle hands are, according to the nuns that had raised me in my previous life, the devil's playthings, and the last thing I wanted was for the several hundred hotheads who had rallied to our banner to have enough free time to think and reconsider their decision to join us.


Fortunately, Kyoto was apparently sincere in their willingness to extend their assistance, as only a few hours later I answered another call from the still-nameless man from Kyoto.


"36.66364390064412, 138.61372273644204." The man rattled off a string of numbers in lieu of any kind of a greeting. Fortunately, I had a notepad close at hand. "Just north of Kusatsu, in the Gunma Prefecture, there's an abandoned high school complex that used to serve the surrounding villages before the war. Now, well..." The man allowed himself a dry laugh. "Our partners have volunteered it for your use. Anything for the Cause, as you say."


I forced a smile, taking care not to grit my teeth at his condescending tone. Naoto, seated across the table, raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but I just shook my head. "Please convey our thanks and gratitude to your partners," I replied, as sweetly as I could manage. "We appreciate their willingness to assist with the liberation of our people."


Another dry chuckle. "Thank them yourself, Miss Hawthorne. A liaison is waiting at the site for you and your first batch of recruits. He will also be your point of contact with our partner organization for any follow-up negotiations. I'm sure you'll have no problems cooperating on advancing your shared cause." Something about the way the Kyoto representative had said that last sentence made me feel vaguely uneasy. He sounded too smug, too pleased with himself, like he had made some secret joke. That uneasy feeling was almost immediately justified by the Kyoto man's parting words. "Make sure you bring that servant of yours with you to do the talking – Major Onoda won't take kindly to dealing with a mixed-blood girl, no matter how many gutter rats she brings with her."


---------


After the bastard from Kyoto had abruptly hung up on me, I had immediately begun preparations. I knew we were on a timer – after all, who knew how long this Major Onoda would linger at the abandoned school – and so I'd ended up delegating a great deal of the work.


Thanks to all of his time spent renting trucks and other miscellaneous vehicles for Rising Sun operations, Nagata had been put in charge of finding transport. As anticipated, he'd come through admirably, and had secured an ancient bus, once the pride of some long forgotten charter tour company. Unlike the trucks we typically used, this had been a direct purchase, since Inoue had discovered that some vehicle purchases qualified as tax-deductible business investments. Thankfully, Nagata had quickly grown proficient with the rattling death-trap, leaving us in presumably safe hands.


Naoto, assisted by Tamaki, had combed through the lists of recruits and picked out the most promising and the most likely to leave if they got too bored. In the end, they had agreed on a final list of sixty men and women from Shinjuku. Most of this first cohort would be on the older side for Shinjuku – in their early to mid thirties – but the leavening of hot-headed teenagers would hopefully invigorate the group. If all went well, this cohort's members would be able to act in a similar capacity to Tamaki, training and leading small groups of fighters. In other words, if things went according to plan, these would be our non-commissioned officers and training cadre.


Ohgi had sat down with Inoue and put together an operational plan for the Rising Sun Association, with an eye towards both maintaining our ongoing charitable operations and finding construction work in the ghetto for the other two hundred odd recruits who wouldn't be accompanying the first cohort in the Gunma mountains. Unless negotiations with the mysterious partner organization broke down completely, Ohgi and I wouldn't be back in Shinjuku until late spring, if not early summer, which meant that Inoue would be stuck with my half of the administrative tasks as well as her own share. Fortunately, her new assistant, Kasumi, was already proving an asset, so hopefully Inoue wouldn't be too swamped. I'd encouraged her to pick out a handful of recruits from the remaining pool for logistics training, but Inoue had felt uncertain about her ability to teach while keeping standards up. I could only hope she would reconsider that stance – we would need more administrators to keep our growing organization functional, just as much as we would need more drivers, more mechanics, and always more soldiers.


While my comrades handled the logistics, I'd managed to carve out a few hours one evening to meet with Kallen. We'd met to discuss her continued information gathering activities at Ashford, as well as to devise a press strategy, now that Kallen was officially a member of the Fourth Estate. Surprisingly, Diethard had proven true to his word; hours after Kallen had sent her photos and her recorded interview, along with a sample article that she had rapidly typed up detailing her experience walking through the torched Honorary Britannian neighborhood, a reply had arrived in her burner account's inbox. That reply had included a piecework contract with Hi-TV as well as a decidedly slimy thank you note from the blond producer. Which had led me to discover a fly in the ointment Kallen hadn't felt the need to point out earlier.


"Miss Cardemonde?" I gave the blushing Kallen an unimpressed look, trying to ignore the rising anger and panic. "If you're going to be a journalist, Kallen, to say nothing of already being a spy, you need to learn how to lie convincingly."


"I know, dammit!" Kallen growled back, running her hand through her already disorderly hair in a manner very reminiscent of her brother. "I panicked, okay? It was the first thing I could think of!"


I took a moment to calm myself down. As much as I wanted to rip into Kallen over this screw-up, I knew that it would be unproductive. Kallen knew that she had made a mistake, and chastising her wouldn't help. A bad leader shames their subordinates, a good leader educates them. "Do you understand why I'm worried, Kallen?"


Kallen slumped in her chair and groaned. "Yeah, yeah... If that bastard looks into the name, he's gonna find Rivalz. Who's listed as the noble sponsor of the Rising Sun in the paperwork we filed with the Administration."


I nodded. "That's true – it is a potential security breach. That said, I'm actually not that concerned about that particular aspect."


Wide blue eyes flew open and looked incredulously at me from across the scarred table. "You're not worried?! I just gave a producer who might be the creepiest man I've ever met and not stabbed a link between me and the guy we need to keep our organization functional! I just handed over a huge link between myself and the Rising Sun to a male Milly who actually gets paid to pry into other people's business! If he finds out that my last name is Kozuki, and starts asking questions... I'm fucked!" As she'd railed against herself, Kallen had scooted forwards as if propelled by some internal spring, leaning forwards towards me as she'd hammered out her last point.


"You did hand him some clues, yes, but I don't think that matters in this context." I smiled back at her, taking care to keep my eyes on her face, and to not to look down her shirt. She is your friend, and she is upset. She is also the daughter of our beneficiary. No. "Kallen, you and Rivalz taking a trip to a recently pillaged Honorary Britannian neighborhood would be the easiest thing to write off." I pitched my voice low and dramatic, mimicking a narrator's voice as best as I could with my still annoyingly childish voice. "Boy takes girl on thrilling motorcycle trip, hoping to impress and charm her with his bravery and devil-may-care attitude towards danger." She smiled slightly at that, and I returned to my normal pitch. "Boy gets a bit more danger than he'd counted on, goes to a hospital, and the girl talks about her experience to a reporter." I shrugged. "Silly, but easy to explain away."


I leaned forward, which for some reason prompted her to lean back. Pity, th... No. "Your real mistake was blatantly lying about your name, especially after you told him about being a student reporter. There are only so many Kallens in Japan, and only so many schools with newspaper clubs. If you had simply introduced yourself as Kallen, or if you had given your real last name, he might have dug a bit, but would have just had it confirmed that Kallen Stadtfeld is, indeed, a student reporter. Lying at all was the mistake – it didn't give you anything, and it will make him think you are trying to hide something."


Kallen groaned again, and rubbed at the compact that concealed her knife. "Dammit, you're right – but what do I do about it?"


I shrugged. "Don't bring it up unless Diethard does. If he asks, tell him you didn't want to give out your name to a strange man, and act offended if he gets pushy about it. If he keeps pushing after that, well... We can consider other solutions at that point."


Lesson hopefully taught, I moved on to the intended reason for our meeting. Kallen, thankfully, didn't care that she was unlikely to get any credit for her work as a stringer – in fact, I was proud to learn that she'd already considered the advantages of being an uncredited writer, namely that she might be able to slip anti-Administration, or at least, pro-Japanese, content into the mouths of actual named reporters, who would then take the fall if the Administration came calling. From there, I went over strategies to foster as much resentment for the status quo as possible. I wasn't a master of journalism or marketing, of course, but I had some lingering memories of marketing meetings from back in my first life, as well as a great deal of familiarity with the propaganda produced by both sides in my second life. Kallen had already come up with her own series of ideas about how to shatter the "Clovisland" image the Administration was so desperate to push; I left our meeting knowing that at the very least she wouldn't be devoured by the camera toting vultures.


And so, two days later, I slipped away from Shinjuku, Ohgi in tow, content that I had left the Kozuki Organization and the Rising Sun in good hands. After all, Naoto would still be on hand to keep everything moving, and since he was the leader anyway I really shouldn't have felt such proprietary concern about making sure the organization that had adopted me would still be there when I got back. At least Ohgi and Nagata will be with me... Soon, Ohgi and I joined Nagata at the rendezvous point, and waited for our first cohort to trickle in by ones and twos.


---------


It had taken ingenuity, patience, and a significant amount of money, but we had managed it in the end. Ohgi, Nagata, myself, and a bus packed with sixty recruits fresh from the Shinjuku Ghetto bumped down the potholed surface of Prefectural Road 55, slowly picking our way over the icy surface. Every now and then, we'd had to get out of the bus and dig out the snow and sleet from under the tires, and once we'd even had to physically push the bus up and over a spot of black ice, but we'd managed it. Cold, tired, and hungry, we had arrived at our new home for the next few months.


As Nagata brought the bus to a shuddering stop outside the abandoned school, I scanned what little I could see of the huddled buildings. Even in the depths of January, the school was enfolded by the surrounding forest, the emerald green cedar boughs almost completely obscuring my view. The patches in the protective camouflage of the canopy by skeletal deciduous trees revealed that the school was in remarkably good shape, considering that it had likely stood abandoned for at least a few years.


The man from Kyoto hadn't specified when the villages from which the student body had been drawn had been wiped out, but a quick internet search conducted by Kallen indicated that the "Healing Hot Springs Resort" at nearby Kusatsu had opened under Britannian management three years ago. I could only assume that the surrounding villages, not to mention the townsfolk of the famous historic onsen town of Kusatsu, had ceased to trouble the Britannians shortly before that point.


"Any sign of the contact we're supposed to meet? What was his name... Onoda?" Ohgi asked, leaning over me from his seat by the aisle to peer out the window. "We should probably start getting all of our things unpacked and inside before we lose the daylight."


I nodded. We had only been able to bring a small amount of supplies with us on the bus, most of which was crammed into the storage compartment under our feet. Said compartment was full to the bursting with a week's rations for all sixty-three of us, the stoves and cooking fuel necessary to heat the water for the porridge and for cleaning, blankets and sleeping bags, first aid equipment, six assault rifles and the same number of pistols, as much ammunition as Naoto thought he could spare, and several jerry cans of fuel for the bus.


As impressive as that small mountain of supplies had looked neatly packed away in the compartment, and as heavy as it had all been whenever we'd had to help the bus up the unmaintained and snow-choked mountain roads, I knew that I had taken a major risk coming here. We had brought all the supplies we could spare, and there was no chance of resupply until Nagata returned to Shinjuku with the bus. More provisions, as well as all of the other materials we would need in the course of training, would have to come from the mysterious "partner organization". An organization whose representative had yet to present himself, despite the noisy and slow arrival of a tour bus crammed with the best Shinjuku had to offer.


That said, the mysterious aspect of the partner organization was paper thin. As far as I knew, there was only one resistance organization in Japan that both controlled enough territory to "lease" out land to another organization as training grounds and used military ranks.


The Japanese Liberation Front, or JLF, had spent almost six years sitting in their mountain bunkers, periodically raiding down from their strongholds and attacking isolated Britannian garrisons and patrols, as well as any locals accused of collaboration. They were the deadest of the dead enders, the last remnants of the Japanese Army that had so totally failed in its bid to defend Japan against the invading Britannians, that had indeed failed so badly that Prime Minister Kururugi had committed seppuku in response to their shameful display. Or, at least, so went the rumors.


Personally, I was in no great hurry to encounter the JLF, and indeed had vaguely hoped I would never have to personally deal with them in my bid to put Lord Stadtfeld in the Viceregal Palace. Not only had the JLF done nothing to actually help any of the enslaved Japanese or to substantively oppose the Britannian occupation, but based on what I remembered from my education before the Conquest, I suspected that the Japanese Army that had been crushed by the Britannians had looked and behaved very similarly to the unlamented Imperial Japanese Army from my first life.


They had, by all accounts, gone to their deaths with an all too familiar cry of "Nippon Banzai!"


Looking back on the Conquest, I was shocked that they hadn't attempted any Saipan-style forced mass suicides once it had become clear that Japan was lost – I could only assume that Prime Minister Kururugi's suicide had taken the wind from their sails. The Prime Minister's suicide had effectively marked the end of organized and open resistance to the Britannian invasion, which raised a number of interesting questions, including that of the Emperor. Or, rather, the question of why the Emperor seemed to be missing.


I didn't remember any mentions of the Imperial Family in my elementary school classes, and I didn't remember anybody bemoaning the deaths of the Imperial Family in the wake of the Conquest. I knew that we had had an empire at one point, since I remembered that Commodore Perry had opened Japan up in this universe just as before, but I couldn't remember learning any of our country's history past that point before the whole question of national history had abruptly become irrelevant.


Questions about what, exactly, was keeping the JLF fighting aside, I was now going to have to deal with a representative of that organization. I dimly remembered that units of the IJA from my first life had continued the war for years after the surrender, and that some holdouts had, well... held out until the Seventies.


And those had just been scattered individuals on jungle islands, cut off and alone. With their command and control intact, who knows how long they're ready to sit in their bunkers? The snow crunched under my boots as I waded forward, following in Ohgi's footsteps as he broke a trail for me. The school itself might have been protected from the heavy snowfall of mountainous central Japan, but drifts almost three feet deep were between us and the ancient wooden sign marking the entrance.


I had tried to take the lead when we had stepped up the bus, but before I could take a single step Ohgi had gently but insistently moved me aside and taken the lead. I felt somewhat guilty at using his larger bulk as an impromptu snow plow, but I wasn't going to fight for the right to exhaust myself in the snow. Plus, if that crazy antique bastard is lurking up ahead with a rifle, I'd rather he see an obviously Japanese face first.


Behind us, Nagata directed the recruits as they unloaded crates of supplies from the bus and joined me, a long chain of porters following in Ohgi's wake. Together, we slogged through the snow into the compound of buildings. To our left was a line of dilapidated two story buildings that bore the instantly recognizable hallmark of institutional housing the world over. To our right loomed an impressive neo-Classical structure, complete with Roman-style pillars in white. Time had not been kind to the once-alabaster facade; the presumably marble edifice was streaked with all kinds of stains, and the stairs were carpeted in a thick layer of rotting leaves under a crusting of wind-blown snow. Ahead of us and to the right, past the apparent receiving hall, a three story building with a high canted roof lurked. Presumably that had been the actual school building, where all the classes had been taught. Dimly, through the lengthening shadows, I could see a cluster of other, smaller buildings out past the main school building.


The only sign of life came from one of the probable classrooms. The third story window was dimly lit from inside, but anything other than the faint orange glow was impossible to make out through the smudged and dirty pane. It did not escape my attention that the window had a perfect view over the entrance to the school compound, perfect for an observer or a sniper. Good thing Ohgi was in front if Major Onoda really is set up in there. I doubted that he was – if so, he wouldn't have left that light on. Which means that's where he wants us to meet him.


I turned back to the line of bedraggled recruits following me, with Nagata bringing up the end of the line. "Welcome to your new home for the next three months!" I yelled, cupping both hands over my mouth to make sure everybody could hear me despite the wind. "I'd love to promise you a trip to the lovely Kusatsu hot springs, but sadly they are closed until we finish cleaning the Britannian filth out of them." I paused, allowing for the mandatory pity chuckle before continuing on, pointing at one of the nearby dorms. "Haul everything into that building for now and do what Nagata tells you – the sooner you unpack, the sooner you eat! Get to it!"


Trusting that Nagata would be able to handle the details, I turned around and caught Ohgi's eye, gesturing at the lit window. He nodded, mouth set in a grim line. "What's your plan for the meeting, Tanya?"


I started walking forwards, no longer forced to shuffle behind Ohgi now that we'd entered the comparatively protected confines of what passed for the school's quad. Ohgi fell into step as I passed him, and he was kind enough to confine his much longer legs to short paces. I appreciated not having to scramble to keep up, like I had to do with Naoto from time to time before he remembered who he was walking with. "Unfortunately, we need to do whatever it takes to get the JLF's–excuse me, the 'partner organization's'-cooperation and supplies. Without their supplies and equipment, we might as well pack the bus back up and head back to Shinjuku."


Ohgi hummed thoughtfully. "That's a bad negotiating position. What do we have that they want to buy supplies with?"


I shrugged. "That's what we'll have to find out from this Major Onoda. Hopefully he's still coherent after years of bunker life." I paused, considering how I should phrase my next point. "The man from Kyoto... indicated... that the good Major would not respond well if I took the lead so it might be beneficial if you handle the negotiations instead."


Ohgi stopped in his tracks and turned to look at me, a shocked expression on his face. "Absolutely not! Tanya, none of this would have been possible without you – all of these recruits got on a bus and came all the way out here into the mountains because of your reputation."


Coming from virtually anybody else, I would have taken Ohgi's statement as either brown-nosing or an attempt to dodge the responsibility for the unpleasant task of groveling for our dinners. Unfortunately, in Ohgi's case, I was afraid that he sincerely believed what he was saying, which would make it all the more difficult to talk some sense back into him.


Sighing with fond exasperation, I patted him on the elbow, doing my best to affirm my appreciation for his immediate support, unfounded though it was. "Ohgi, they signed up because they're terrified of the Britannians and the gangs, and because we promised to feed them. My only role was in facilitating their recruitment by advertising the opportunities membership in the Kozuki Organization presents. They joined us because we promised them an alternative other than a slow death by hunger or a speedy death by bullet." I chuckled, somewhat amused that anyone would believe that people would throw their lives away to sign up with a terrorist organization just because of me. "No, each of those recruits signed up for their own reasons, but I doubt any of them had much to do with me. Besides, we both know that Naoto is the charismatic leader around here."


As I spoke, Ohgi's look of shock slowly turned into an expression of confusion before settling on something that I couldn't fully pin down, but looked remarkably like indigestion. "Tanya... this isn't the time or the place for this conversation, but... for such a smart girl, you can be remarkably stupid at times." He shook his head, smiled at my indignant expression, and patted me on the head!


Before I could muster the words to express my fury at his condescending attitude – what the hell did he mean by "remarkably stupid" anyway?! - Ohgi turned and continued walking towards the class building, leaving me to scamper to catch up. "So," he continued in a more business-like tone, forcing me to set aside my irritation in favor of professionalism, "we're just playing this by ear, eh? I think the only things we can really trade against their support right now is the promise of future support and friendship. And that's pretty pitiful, as far as trade goes – plus, they don't know us, so they won't trust us."


"Mhm." I nodded, mentally inventorying our assets. "I think that we have two, potentially three, presently usable chips. Namely, access, information, and violence."


"Violence, huh?" Ohgi smiled at that, a somewhat wistful look crossing his features. In earlier times I would have assumed it was a gesture that he longed to return to the battlefield; now, I wasn't quite sure what that sad smile represented, but I doubted it was anything like blood lust. "I suppose that's always on the table for you, eh, Tanya? But... why would the JLF need our help for that? They've got an army, after all."


"Yes, they do," I agreed, nodding as I stated the obvious. "They've got an army that's spent years doing nothing in particular besides the occasional small scale raid. In other words, they've got an army that has forgotten how to fight."


"That makes sense–although I'd recommend finding a more diplomatic way to phrase that sentiment," Ohgi cautioned as we approached the door to the school, unsurprisingly finding it unlocked. "Access and information, though?"


I nodded, pitching my voice low and quiet in case the JLF representative was lurking around, trying to overhear our conversation. "How many spies do the JLF have in the Britannian Concession? How many connections to the Britannian and Honorary Britannian underclasses do they have? I'm betting very few if any. We have both. Access and information."


Ohgi nodded his understanding, looking a bit heartened that we wouldn't be meeting Major Onoda entirely cap in hand. I looked up at the shadowed staircase, where a trail in the dust and debris indicated recent traffic, and gritted my teeth. Well, no time like the present. This isn't going to get any more pleasant with time. Back straight and head held high, I followed Ohgi up the stairs to our presumably waiting interlocutor.


---------


JANUARY 9, 2016 ATB
"THE SCHOOL" TRAINING FACILITY BARRACKS
0430


Training began bright and early for everybody at The School, especially for myself, Ohgi, and Nagata. As it had been for the last week, I was the first to wake up, slipping from my blankets just before five. The old school dormitory was as frigid as always, and I changed clothes as fast as possible, standing on the blankets to keep my bare feet from the icy linoleum as I pulled on my socks one by one. As soon as I was presentable, I shook Nagata and Ohgi awake as gently as was possible under the circumstances.


Then, much less gently, I woke the recruits. One of the supplementary items Nagata had brought along in the name of morale boosting was a crank powered tape player, which I had promptly appropriated for the morning alarm, as I lacked a bugle. The recruits had five minutes to get up, get dressed, and get outside from when I passed their door, tape player in hand. Any of the five man squads with tardy or undressed recruits got the joy of doing push ups until their buddies joined them.


After everybody was awake and sorted, we all went outside into the snow for a brisk run around the compounds and between the young trees that had sprung up on the old football field during the years The School had sat empty. Ohgi or Nagata took the lead, while I brought up the rear, encouraging any stragglers to keep up with the pack. After thirty minutes or a mile run without anybody slowing to a walk, whichever came first, we all returned to the dorm for breakfast, shivering as we hastily boiled water over the camping stoves to prepare thin miso flavored with tiny bits of dried meat, porridge, and cabbage.


Breakfast was a generous thirty minutes, after which it was time for more cardio, followed by calisthenics. Next came the first class of the day.


Each "class" was led by myself or Ohgi, and consisted of a thirty minute lecture followed by having the class break up into smaller groups for more hands-on work, with Ohgi and I circulating between groups. Topics ranged from weapon care and maintenance to first aid, from learning useful Britannian words and phrases to learning how to speak about our organization to civilians potentially interested in joining – after all, this cohort in particular would ideally be the base for our noncom corps, and recruiting sergeants were a must for any army. Every now and then, Nagata would step up to teach skills like driving, vehicle repair, or basic mechanics.


One of the many bottlenecks we had identified in the training process during the hasty planning sessions prior to setting out for the Gunma hinterlands was the huge ratio of recruits to available instructors. Fortunately, Ohgi had drawn on his experience as a teacher and devised a mitigation measure of sorts, inspired by the class representatives of the high school he'd once taught at.


"Appoint one of them squad leader for a day," he'd said, "and have it rotate each day. The squad leader will keep their squad on task, and any questions they've got go through the squad leader to us. That way, we only need to talk to twelve people, and they can correct their squads for us."


Naoto and I had both agreed that this was an excellent idea; not only did it simplify the tenuous classroom situation, the strategy also gave every recruit a small taste of leadership. Ideally, it would help Ohgi and I handpick the next generation of small unit commanders from the talent pool as well, although that was a longer term concern.


After that first class period came a short pre-lunch workout, mostly running and body weight exercises. Lunch generally consisted of another helping of porridge and vegetables, supplemented with miso , followed by another class period. Typically, the afternoon class focused on slightly more cerebral topics than the morning class, and included topics such as basic tactics, simple human intelligence collection skills, soft and hard interrogation, and the ins and outs of operational security.


Unlike the morning class, where all twelve squads remained with Ohgi and I in the former reception hall of The School, during the afternoon half of the class would remain inside with me as I conducted the class, while the other half went outside with Nagata and Ohgi to get better acquainted with the firearms we had brought with us from Shinjuku, as well as other practical martial skills. Each day, the halves swapped back and forth between us, so both groups got a roughly equal amount of practice.


It had been both somewhat intimidating and nostalgic the afternoon of the first day, standing alone in front of thirty men and women, every one of them older than me. Ohgi had been beside me in every prior situation like this in my life to date, from the first distribution at the Rising Sun's hall to that morning's class session. While I obviously didn't need him to be present, it had been reassuring to have someone at my side I could count on. Now that he was gone, out in the forest with the other half of the recruits and Nagata, I had nothing but my own self-assurance to fall back on in the face of all of those inquisitive stares.


At the same time, the situation had been undeniably nostalgic in a very bittersweet way. I hadn't stood in front of a group of trainees and students like I had that first day of training since the founding of the 203rd; the shades of my old comrades hung thick about the room. As it always was when they crossed my mind, it had been hard to... keep myself in check. It had been easy to keep my eyes steely and focused on my recruits – making eye contact with strangers was far preferable to looking behind me and to my right, at the empty space where someone should be standing.


That first night, after the training session, had been particularly troubled. I had lain awake for hours, spending time I should have been sleeping tossing and turning, engrossed in sharp-edged memories. I'd finally drifted off to sleep, and been disappointed in myself when I'd woken up with tears frozen to my face. I had thought I was done with crying. I hadn't cried since that talk with Naoto in the aftermath of the truck hijacking, but it seemed like the change of scenery coupled with the memories of my last life had been enough. Thankfully, since I was always the first to rise, I'd had time to scrub my face clean as best as I could with my sleeve. Ohgi might have reassured me that it wasn't a sign of weakness to ask for help, but... I just wasn't ready to talk about anything touching on my previous life. Besides, I didn't have the time, not in the inaugural week of our training program.


I had been surprised to find myself enjoying the role of instructor over the course of this first week– I had never really thought of myself as a teacher, and much of the "training" I had subjected the 203rd to had been administered with the intention of driving them away and scuttling the rapid-reaction concept, not actual education. Yet, standing in front of my thirty trainees that first day, I had been eager to pass on my knowledge, hungry to pass on every trick I could to refine these fellow scrapings of the Shinjuku ghettos into thorns in the hand of Britannia. That craving to teach, to instruct, to build had swollen and grown with each passing day.


My hunger to teach was happily reciprocated by the recruits' eagerness to learn. I had, frankly, been shocked by the lack of any push back from my students. None of them had objected to being taught by an almost twelve year old, nor had any objected to being instructed by a blue eyed blonde. The latter was not particularly surprising – between the Rising Sun's work and the knowledge that I had lived in Shinjuku since the Conquest, nobody seemed willing or interested in making an issue of my mixed heritage. The fact that nobody objected to being taught by a child was more surprising, but I could only assume that Ohgi's willingness to back me up, coupled with the minor reputation boost I'd gained thanks to the brawl at the Rising Sun, had helped lay their worries to rest. Which meant I didn't have to waste time proving my credentials to my subordinates and could instead focus getting down to the business of education.


Seven days of hard training and instruction later, I stood in front of my class again. "Welcome back from lunch, comrades! I hope you enjoyed it thoroughly." Strictly speaking, I had been with them in the cafeteria, thoroughly cleaned and returned to its original function, and had eaten the same ration of porridge and greens that they had, but that was immaterial. "Today, I won't bother you with a lecture or ramble at you with anecdotes! Instead..." I let the deliberate pause hang in the air, and was gratified to see all but one of the attendees unconsciously leaning in towards me, eager for the next words. "Instead, I will be giving you several scenarios, and each squad will have to put together a list of objectives, a plan, and a list of required materials! After you finish, you will meet with another squad, exchange plans, and critique each other!" And now, for the incentive. "The squad with the best plan for each scenario gets this class period off tomorrow afternoon!" That should light a fire under them.


I had planned for today to be something approaching a test for my students, or perhaps a lesson in practical application, but it seemed like the lesson would be a test for me as well. Leaning against the back wall of the classroom, Major Onoda Hiroo of the Japanese Liberation Front glared at me, clearly itching to make a nuisance of himself.


The initial meeting had gone just about as badly as I had feared. The Six Houses had clearly informed Major Onoda and his superiors about my mixed heritage, which meant that while he was clearly unhappy about my presence he at least lacked any excuse to "accidentally" bayonet me as I walked through the door. Robbed of the opportunity for overt hostility, Onoda had simply done his best to pretend that I did not, in fact, exist; he did not acknowledge my presence in any way, nor did he respond to anything that I said.


While frustrating, the situation was not entirely beyond all repair. Onoda was willing to speak with and negotiate through Ohgi, who being both obviously "pure" Japanese and a man apparently met his standards. As a result, poor Ohgi ended up working as something like a translator – Onoda would say something, I would reply, Ohgi would parrot what I had just said, and Onoda would reply. It was an intensely irritating experience, especially considering that Major Onoda and the rest of his collection of Pre-Conquest fossils had spent the years safe and well-fed in their mountain bunkers, while the rest of us had been forced to struggle for food and for shelter under the feet of the Britannians. Still, the JLF were undoubtedly the stronger of the two of us, and Onoda fully knew it, knew that we needed him and his supplies more than he needed us.


After a tortuous hour, just before my fraying patience had snapped entirely, we had finally come to an accord. The JLF would provide my training group with food, ammunition, cooking oil, and other necessities including winter weight gear, for the next three months. In exchange, after the first cohort of recruits was combat ready, the Kozuki Organization would conduct two operations against the Britannian forces stationed outside the Greater Tokyo Area in accordance with the wishes of the JLF. Also, Major Onoda would have the right to observe and participate in any and all training sessions without interference.


I was, to say the least, unhappy with the agreement, but didn't see any alternative. Besides, while the initial contract was decidedly disadvantageous, as more recruits arrived the Kozuki Organization would be able to haul in more materials sourced from Shinjuku, reducing our reliance on the JLF for the basics. Plus, the current contract meant that I had three months to make a solid impression on the JLF and specifically on Major Onoda. If I could win him over, or at least reduce his overt hostility to the point where a professional relationship was possible, future negotiations would be far easier.


Just a pity the man's such an ass.


This was the first time the good Major had shown up to a class when Ohgi wasn't also present, and it was difficult to tell if this represented a step forward or not. His presence presumably indicated that Onoda had finally realized that he couldn't simply dismiss me entirely, but the fact that he'd boldly strode through the door just after the last of the recruits had returned from lunch and heading straight to the back wall boded ill. Is he trying to undermine my control over the recruits? I couldn't see how that would benefit him or his organization, since these were the people I would be using for the two missions I owed him.


No, more likely than not, he was simply an unpleasant and racist relic of the past that I would have to work around as best as I could. If he went beyond simple unpleasantness, though, or tried anything against me or my recruits? I wouldn't let a dreg who hadn't had the decency to commit seppuku with his leader as he'd presumably sworn that he would hold me back. His Japan was, like it or not, dead. Hopefully, with the cooperation of Lord Stadtfeld, I would bring a new Japan into existence.


Turning my attention away from the mustachioed pain in the ass, I started outlining the first scenario to my class. "You have received intelligence from a reliable source that a certain address contains a significant amount of sellable drugs and currency, as well as other valuables, and that said valuables are about to be moved to an unknown location via truck. The structure has guards visible outside the entrances, and an unknown number of potential hostiles are inside. Your organization is short on funds, which prompted this operation. You have twenty minutes to discuss the scenario before comparing your work with another squad. If you have any questions, squad leaders, don't hesitate to ask."


By the time class had ended, I had run the recruits through three scenarios drawn from my time with the Kozuki Organization. After the truck scenario had come the station, with details modified to describe attacking a fortified bunker full of unwary soldiers, before I'd finally concluded with Naoto's thankfully aborted idea of attacking the expansion of the Sakuradite-powered MagLev system. Major Onoda had seemed disinterested in the first scenario, had frowned as he'd listened to the squads nearest him discuss how best to ambush the bunker's occupants, and had looked quite upset for some reason when I had stated my opinion that the third scenario was a foolish thing to attempt at all and had given the squad that had opted for a tactical retreat the victory. By the time the last of the recruits had tromped out on their way to the parked bus, where Nagata would instruct them about the finer points of engine maintenance, Major Onoda had looked fit to burst.


I carefully ignored the fuming presence in the back of the room, taking time to straighten up the loose pages of notes on the desk I had commandeered. If Onoda had finally felt the need to interact directly with me, I was more than ready for him – relying on Ohgi to "translate" was a bad joke, and it wasted everybody's time. Just the same, a lot was riding on the continued cooperation of the JLF, and I couldn't afford to offend the Major to the point where he'd scuttle our whole partnership. It would be a foolish move, illogically motivated by personal rancor, but the same could be said for virtually everything he had done since we'd arrived.


I wondered why the remnants of the Japanese Army had seen fit to assign him as our liaison; my best guess was that some higher-up in the JLF did not want to work with us but did not want to risk offending Kyoto by refusing to help at all, and so had decided to task their most truculent officer with driving us off. It was the kind of stupid office politics I sadly could remember from both of my past lives, and it seemed all too unfortunately plausible.


Seeming to realize that if he wanted a conversation he'd have to be the initiator, Major Onoda peeled himself off the wall and made his way to the front of the classroom. I ceased shuffling the papers and turned my attention towards him as he came to a stop in front of my desk. I could immediately tell that this would not be a friendly conversation. He made no concession to my diminutive frame as he drew himself stiffly up to his full height, towering a foot and a half over me. Instead of angling his head down to look directly at me, only his eyes tracked downwards, leaving him glaring down his nose.


As far as attempts to assert dominance went, I judged his performance as distinctly unimpressive. Walking past a heap of corpses slumped against a wall, some of which had been my neighbors up until recently, had been fairly intimidating. The terror I had felt when I thought Naoto was going to tell me to leave had been intense, and had brought me to the brink of hysteria before I had realized I'd misread the situation. Comparatively, being looked down upon by this bastard was just a waste of my time. And I wasn't interested in wasting even a single minute that could be spent educating my recruits in a pointless staring match with this relic of the old order.


"Yes? Did you want something?" I spoke casually, pitching my tone towards the mildly inquisitive, doing my best to not offer any direct offense without kowtowing to the Major either. "If you've got any questions about the scenarios, I would be happy to explain further."


Breath hissed from Onoda's nostrils, but when he finally spoke, it was calmly, quietly. "Your tactics are cowardly and cheap. It is shameful that you are teaching your students to wage war in such a manner."


"And what would you propose, Major." I likewise kept my voice calm, but I didn't bother trying to warm up my icy tone. "Not all of us have a bunker to hide in for the next five years, nor do we have the weapons to face the foreign invaders toe to toe. What would you have us do? Shout 'Banzai!' and charge Knightmares with knives and pistols?"


Onoda's face tightened slightly, but to his credit he didn't rise to the bait. In fact, he suddenly seemed inexplicably looser, as if an unseen tension had just been removed. If this is a test... Did that mean I answered correctly? "True, directly confronting the Britannians is doomed to failure. But, from what I hear, you've never fought the Britannians, have you? You've only fought Japanese, in your slum..." He snorted slightly. "True Japanese, that is. You haven't even confronted the lapdogs of the Britannians. I even hear that you feed them, now that the puppies have been kicked by their master."


Keep calm. He's trying to piss you off... and he's doing a great job at it. "Unlike some people," I began, picking my words with care, "I plan for the future. After all, today's enemy is tomorrow's friend, especially after a demonstration of the cruelty and impotence of their current leadership." I smiled up at Onoda as my mind whirled, trying to find some way to deescalate the situation.


I needed Onoda and the resources he represented on my side – losing the JLF would not only kill the training camp concept, it would be a black mark against my capabilities as a leader in the eyes of my tentative backers in Kyoto House. On the other hand, I couldn't let him roll over me. The moment I showed my belly, Onoda would lose all respect for me, and would never accept me as anything close to an equal.


Suddenly, an idea struck me. If there was one thing that I remembered from my first life and my dealings with middle ranked managers in the corporate sphere, it was the overwhelming sense of pride this type had in their accomplishments and perceived abilities. My second life's experiences had indicated that the same held true for many middle-ranked military officers. Scoring conversational sparring points that would potentially bruise his ego did me no good – but perhaps flanking his defensiveness by appealing to that ego would. "Major Onoda, you were a member of the Republic of Japan's Army before the Conquest, correct?"


Major Onoda blinked, seemingly taken aback at my sudden change in tone and topic. "Yes, of course. I was assigned to the Komaki Garrison. Why? What do you care, girl?"


"Tanya. My name is Tanya." Showing interest was not a capitulation, and Onoda was a fool if he thought as much. "It is very impressive that you have survived so long. You must have learned a great deal during your time in uniform. You would be an excellent teacher for our recruits, most of whom know little about how to use a rifle or any number of other military skills." That's enough ego stroking... time to bait the hook. "Assuming, of course, that you haven't gotten too rusty. Five years is a long time to be out of the field, for a soldier."


Onoda snorted. "I might not have spent my years wading through the filth of Shinjuku, but I've hardly been out of the field for so long. Why do you think I was chosen to babysit you and your crowd of hoodlums, hmm?"


That was an interesting deflection, and raised several questions, but I wasn't interested in tangents at the moment. "Excellent. In that case, I am sure you have a great deal to teach my men, including how you were able to conduct honorable operations for the JLF. I am assuming that you were in uniform and only attacked military targets during these missions?"


Onoda had the grace to look moderately embarrassed for a moment, before rallying. "Irrelevant. Why should I waste my time teaching your gutter scrapings anything, hmm? Are you trying to cover up your own failings by farming out their education?"


"We are shorthanded, and you would make a quantitative difference in our instructive capacity." I replied calmly, refusing the bait. On the other hand... "But, I can understand your concerns. You have not yet had the opportunity to see any of us in action, and your information on our capabilities has come by way of third parties, not your own organization's observations." I didn't know for sure if Onoda knew anything about the Six Houses, as the name had not been mentioned even once in the first negotiating session. Best not to name-drop. Breaking OpSec would be terribly unprofessional... "If you would like, I would be happy to demonstrate my familiarity with the rifle, the pistol, the knife, or any similar skill. If such a demonstration would assist your decision on whether or not to share your skills, I believe Ohgi and the other half of the recruits are outside training with the rifles this very moment."


---------


FEBRUARY 2, 2016 ATB
OUTSIDE "THE SCHOOL" TRAINING FACILITY
1630


Three weeks after my little "demonstration", a month after the first cohort and I had arrived at The School, the bus wheezed its way back into the center of the compound and disgorged its load of thirty fresh recruits from Shinjuku. With them in the bus came a cornucopia of badly needed supplies, including more ammunition for the training weapons, many more blankets, an abundance of multivitamin tablets and decongestant medications, and plenty of other tools to improve the educational experience.


The new recruits found six of the twelve squads of the first cohort waiting for them as soon as they got off the bus, and each of the more experienced recruits stepped forward to take responsibility for one of the new recruits. This particular concept had been one of Ohgi's brainwaves. Instead of wasting valuable instructional time on the basics, many of the simpler lessons on easily taught and rote topics could be passed student to student, freeing the instructors up to focus on teaching more advanced topics to greenhorns and the more advanced students alike.


And if I'm being honest... The fact that it gives us some badly needed free time is a relief...


It had been a stressful month, to say the least. Stressful in a manner to which I was no longer truly accustomed, I was sorry to say and even sorrier to find out. In a somewhat perverse way, I had grown acclimated over the years of my most recent life to gnawing hunger, to aching muscles, to a profound level of fear and helplessness in the face of death by forces wildly beyond my control. After joining the Kozuki Organization, I had grown familiar with the stress of combat, with the burden of responsibility. And yet, the stress of teaching, of cultivating my relationship with my trainees without compromising my need to be an effective teacher and subordinate leader... Even the stress of coming up with new lesson plans and new ways to explain topics and concepts in an easy and useful manner had been surprisingly difficult to get used to.


At some points, I had almost grown nostalgic for the nerve-jangling adrenaline boost that came from a close brush with death. Almost.


Thankfully, while he had never really warmed up to me, my demonstration apparently impressed Major Onoda enough that he had seen the virtues of maintaining a working relationship. While I was, of course, happy to have his cooperation, and hopefully the cooperation of his organization as well, in the short term I was just relieved to have another experienced fighter willing to take on some of the burden of instruction.


At first, Onoda had only been willing to teach basic weapons skills and the like to the trainees, but after a week or so he appeared to have been infected by the same hunger to teach that had taken hold of me during my first week as an instructor. Perhaps it was just the experience of having so many eyes fixed on you, eager and willing to listen to whatever you say, or perhaps it was a simple desire to maintain his pride by demonstrating the variety of skills under his command, but by the third week of the first training session, I had learned a few very interesting things about Major Onoda Hiroo.


Surprisingly, Onoda's original operational specialty had been in signal intelligence, and he had a great deal of familiarity with a variety of communication technologies, as well as some experience with interception of enemy communications. During his time with the JLF, he had developed something of a secondary specialty as a scout as a result of several missions involving sneaking into various rural outposts and either stealing code books and radios or planting listening devices or phone taps. He'd cultivated keen observational instincts when it came to evaluating the field strength of enemy units, and had apparently mastered the art of staying still for hours at a time, lurking under cover until the moment to infiltrate came.


In retrospect, this made his complaints about my ambush tactics decidedly hypocritical, but compared to his blatant racism and sense of superiority over all of the recruits, that was really the least of my problems with the man.


The only real issue I had had with Major Onoda had been heading off a scheme he'd come up with to "blood" the recruits. It had taken Ohgi, Nagata, and myself to convince him that kidnapping a number of Britannian civilians from the hot spring resort at Kusatsu for use as human targets was a bad idea. Onoda had insisted that it was a long-time tradition in the Japanese Army to make sure that recruits had the killer instinct by making them kill prisoners during the course of their training; I had no doubt that he was telling the truth about that. On the other hand, as I had pointed out to the Major, not only was the Kozuki Organization not the Japanese Army, we were also not a state actor, and thus lacked a supply of prisoners. Even if we got away with kidnapping a group of random Britannians for the first cohort, it would be impossible to do so for all the subsequent training groups. More than anything else, the logistical infeasibility convinced him to drop it.


As the new recruits found billets and dinner, I slipped away from The School, across the street, and through the surrounding forest and towards the nearby Kanayamazawa River. The forest was quiet, and the dense evergreen canopy kept the snow at a navigable level, and so I had taken to roaming the surroundings whenever I had a free moment in my busy schedule at The School. Neither of my previous lives had really given me the opportunity to get out into nature, save for military operations during my second life, and I found it immensely relaxing to step away from all of the works of humankind, just for a few moments. Bundled in the coat that Kallen had bought me, shod with a pair of Japanese military surplus combat boots crammed full of wadded up newspaper, it was easy to feel like the last person in the world under the primeval embrace of the broad cedar bows.


Down at a slight bend in the frozen river, I had found a large granite boulder standing nearly at the river's edge during an earlier exploration. It stood like some monument, some forgotten menhir, and it had probably stood in just the same way since the end of the last ice age. I was sure that, come the spring thaw, the river would rise and lap away at the boulder, but it had clearly hidden many secrets before, come water and time; when I had found it, I had discovered snack wrappers and soda bottles wedged under it, dating back from before the Conquest. It had probably once served as a place for students to sneak away from the eyes of their proctors at the school and to enjoy a few snacks and cigarettes away from adult supervision.


Now, that boulder hid my secret as well. I had, in truth, concealed one of the reasons I had pushed for the establishment of a training camp far outside of the densely populated core of Shinjuku, and far away from the innumerable prying eyes, from everybody, Ohgi and Naoto included. Ever since I had started eating better, ever since I had enough of a calorie surplus to start building muscle, my magical powers had become increasingly strong. I had been able to maintain my mental and physical enhancements for a longer period of time, and the intense use of both produced increasingly notable effects. When I had brawled with the gangsters at the Rising Sun dinner, I had overclocked my mental enhancement to the point where my perception of time had slowed down, giving me the freedom to analyze how and where my opponents would move and to prepare counters. The physical enhancement suite had almost sent me sprawling on the floor when I'd jumped over the table with far too much force, as my calibrations had been tied to my earlier functional levels.


This lack of awareness and familiarity with my newly expanded capacity had the potential to be a double-edged sword. For example, if I really had fallen to the ground during the brawl, I would have both undermined my entire presentation and left myself in a vulnerable position. I had been lucky that the low quality of my opposition had prevented them from capitalizing on my mistake – I couldn't count on similar strokes of luck in the future. And so, whenever I had time to myself, I slipped out into the forest to this spot, and practiced my magic as best as I could.


The first couple of weeks had been dedicated to re-familiarizing myself with the bread and butter enhancements I had relied upon for so long. It had been like returning to the gym after a period of absence and gradually working back up to your old weights, feeling muscles that had grown slack and lazy tighten and surge with new life. I had stumbled back to my bed with every muscle worn from the exertion of pushing myself to the edge and with my brain throbbing after the merciless abuse of the overclocking enhancements, but it had been worth it. Finally, after I felt confident in my command of my enhancement suite once more, I embarked on a new project.


Without the help of a computation orb or a similar device, flight was unfortunately far beyond my reach. I couldn't hope to complete the necessary calculations in my mind while simultaneously attempting to maneuver, nor did I have the magical capacity for unaided flight, even now that I had a decent diet. While true flight was out of the question, though, acceleration and movement along a vector very much wasn't.


When I flew, I had to overcome gravity, compensate for wind resistance, and account for a half-dozen other factors. Vector acceleration, however, did not require anything like that level of complexity. Instead of canceling out the force of gravity, all I had to do was pick a percieved direction and add a force vector pointed in said direction; the force applied would then determine how fast I would go. As perception is the root of experience, I should be able to alter my direction by simply canceling the first vector and making a new one with my facing as the new direction. In effect, this would cause me to rapidly plummet in any direction I chose by simply turning my body whichever way I wanted to go, and given sufficient experience, I was relatively certain I would be able to change the chosen direction in mid-movement, allowing me to maneuver along unpredictable zig-zagging lines, reducing my target profile.


This was not, by any measure, an easy process. My first few attempts at altering applying the theory had left me with nothing more than a sensation of intense vertigo and nausea, forcing me to stay in bed for a whole day. Ohgi had been surprisingly understanding of my need for bed rest, and even left a bottle of aspirin by my bed when he left for the morning training. All the female recruits had looked similarly sympathetic, which had finally clued me in on the misunderstanding of why I had spent a day curled up around myself, hoping that my gut would settle down. Truthfully, I was just happy that this particular source of unpleasantness had yet to rear its ugly head, but now that I had been eating adequately for several months, I was gloomily certain that shadow of my second life would soon be returning to haunt me once again.


Eventually, my training began to pay off. After some perseverance and much chewing of raw ginger to help cope with the nausea, I had finally gotten to the point where I could jump in the air, apply a vector to myself, and zoom twenty feet across the river's icy surface before turning and then hurling myself back the way I came. It wasn't flying, but the rush of wind for that precious second or two almost made me feel like I was back up in the clouds once more.


The night that the second cohort arrived, I had been practicing my vector acceleration as per normal, forcing rapid changes in the direction as I whizzed around the standing boulder. Between the certain knowledge that everybody else in the area was fully occupied moving the new recruits into the dormitory barracks and that heady nostalgic flying feeling, I had let myself sink fully into the delicious sensation of movement. In short, I had grown complacent, and had let my guard down.


"T-Tanya?"


...Oh shit!


"Tanya! What... What's going on? What are you doing?!" It was all I could do to keep control of my magic and not plow face first into the unyielding granite. Smashing down the rising panicky impulse, I ended the current vector analysis calculation in my head and let the re-established gravitational normalcy claim me, absentmindedly flexing my knees as I landed back on the stony river bank. Then, full of a mixed sensation of childish guilt and dread, I slowly turned to meet Ohgi's eyes, where he stood between the cedars at the edge of the forest.


Guess the secret's out now...

 

[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?"


---------


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.


---------


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.


---------


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!"


---------


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.

 

[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.

 

[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."

 

[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."

 

[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!"

 

[Scopas]

(Thank you to my editors, Sunny, Restestsest, Mitch H. and MetalDragon. Thank you to Siatru for beta reading this chapter. And a big thank you to everybody on the AYGGW and the Tanya Writer's Discords for their help and support.)


APRIL 25, 2016 ATB
SHINJUKU GHETTO, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
0655


"Good work leads to more work."


After three lives of hard work, that truth had become self-evident. Efficiency was always rewarded with more work, which was frankly understandable since people tended to bet on proven winners. My reward for surviving my watch on the Rhine had been command over a battalion destined for deployment to troubled zones until death or peace came; my reward for claiming Shinjuku was, for better and worse, becoming the authority in Shinjuku.


"You break it, you buy it," I thought gloomily, nodding my gratitude to Tanaka Chika as she refilled my cup with hot tea. Unlike her elder sister, the young Chika was a fairly happy-go-lucky person, always eager to find new ways to help out around the Rising Sun's Meeting Hall. It's a pity Inoue scooped her up first; I could use an aide or two.


Thankfully, I didn't have to handle my newly expanded workload all on my lonesome. Besides Chika, Inoue's backroom office was packed with people eagerly waiting for new assignments, courtesy of myself, Naoto, and Inoue. Below the murmur of side conversations between the assembled men and women, the rumble of feet and the clink of spoons on bowls drifted from the Hall's main room; breakfast was well underway, and as soon as I distributed assignments to the elected foremen, eager bodies with full bellies would set to work.


Eager or not, there's just not enough of them. The thought made me grimace, but it was the truth. Shinjuku Ghetto was home to somewhere around two hundred thousand men, women, and children, as near as anybody could guess without an official census. By contrast, the Kozuki Organization had just over a hundred full members, including the students undergoing training at The School.


Of course, that number didn't include the Sun Guard, the militia Naoto had assembled from the would-be recruits we couldn't immediately train, nor did it include noncombatants like Chika or Kasumi, Inoue's other assistant, who was currently occupied with overseeing the breakfast line. The Sun Guard numbered somewhere around a thousand five hundred but were under-equipped for the most part and entirely untrained.


Fortunately, I didn't need an army at the moment. What I needed was a workforce, and the Sun Guard had already been put to good use before during Naoto's Shinjuku Improvement project.


"Alright people," Naoto slammed a hand down on Inoue's desk, refocusing the room's attention on him. "Today's going to be just as busy as yesterday and the day before were, and I'm sure you're all eager to get to work. Before we start handing out assignments, I'd like to thank you and your crews once again; you're doing good work, hard work, and you're doing it quickly and efficiently. We're all pulling together, and I'm honored to have your help."


Smiles and nods filled the crowded room, and a few wags in the crowd responded with the typical lame jokes, which received the requisite laughter and a few witty replies from Naoto.


It's amazing, I reflected, how easily he wins them over. It's the first thing in the morning, but everybody is lined up happily waiting for their assignments. He'd have made a splendid manager, back in my first life. Back in a sane world.


Pulling myself back to the present, I picked up the list of assignments from the table beside me before climbing up on top of the stained wooden surface. I'd long since come to terms with my height and I usually had no problem handing out orders to people several heads taller, but the room was full of enough adult-sized people that I wanted at least a little room to breathe.


"Line up over here!" I instructed, pointing at the space I'd just occupied. "When I hand you your mission, don't just stand around; hurry up and get out of the way of the next person!"


"Heya there, Miss Hajime." The first man to step forwards had an easy grin, seemingly unaffected by the angry red scar that slashed up from his chin to his temple. From my experience on the rubble hauling work crews, I recognized it as the mark left behind when an overstrained cable snaps and lashes out. This man had been extremely lucky to have only been grazed. "What've you got for me 'n the boys today?"


"Mister Iwane, right?" I asked out of habit, already scanning the crowded list for the notation in Inoue's tidy hand indicating where the former masonry worker and his team should go. "You'll be over in Kawadacho today. I want you to take your usual crew and twenty others over to the old Wakamatsu station. Get the new hands working on clearing the platforms while your experienced men start checking the stability of the service tunnels."


Kawadacho, located just east of the central Shinjuku Ghetto and stretching south to the encircling wall, had belonged to the Eleven Lords up until very recently. They'd controlled the access leading to the Kawadacho Checkpoint with an iron fist, which was probably why they had so brazenly operated a slave brothel catering to deviants who wouldn't be welcome in more respectable quarters.


Sadly, liberating the territory from the gang's abuses would only be the first step on the path to recovery for the sector and its long-suffering inhabitants. Utterly untouched by the Shinjuku Improvement project, the area's infrastructure was crumbling and many of its buildings were husks barely capable of providing worthwhile shelter.


Even worse, directly to the west of southern Kawadacho was the dumping area, where the hauler crews left Shinjuku's garbage and its dead in the vast dumpsters the Britannians had provided for that purpose. Those dumpsters were only replaced on a two or three-month basis, which meant that the area swarmed with vermin feasting on the waste, consequently severely impacting public health in south Shinjuku.


Taken together, Kawadacho was only a few short steps over a total wasteland, but abandoning the district wasn't a viable option. Living space in Shinjuku came at a premium, after all, and most of the buildings that weren't already crammed with families were just as dubious in terms of shelter as the skeletal remains of the Tokyo Women's Medical University Hospital that stood like a tombstone at the northern end of Kawadacho.


"Going down into the tunnels, eh?" Mister Iwane scratched at his head, before pulling a sweat-stained rag from his back pocket and tying it around his forehead. "Alright, sounds good. Let's see if we can get the whole of the old station cleared out by sunset!"


"No need to strain yourself; the rubble's not going anywhere." While the man's passion for his task was a credit to his diligence, medical supplies were in frightfully short supply. The last thing I needed were working hands laid low by easily preventable workplace injuries. "Also, keep an eye open for rats. I imagine there's quite a few waiting down in the station."


"Good," the masonry worker, an experienced old hand in his late twenties, grinned up at me. "Me and the boys could use some extra protein!"


I waved him out with exasperated exhaustion that might have been partially faked and turned to the next job seeker. I blinked, searching for some memory of the squat, surprisingly broad woman who looked to be in her late forties, comparatively ancient by Shinjuku standards.


"I don't think I've met you before," I said after a moment when I failed to put a name to the face, "have you worked with us before?"


"Uh-huh." The woman grunted through yellowed lips, rheumy eyes watering with exhaustion looking up at me momentarily, before closing as she yawned. "Too damned early for all this line crap, but yeah."


Clearly not a morning person, I thought sympathetically. While I'd rarely had a problem waking up early, I certainly wouldn't want to face the day without some of the coffee Naoto had been kind enough to stock up our apartment with. I'll try to give her an easy task.


Before I could get her name, Naoto broke into the conversation. "Ah, Tanya, you don't need to worry about her. She's going to be with my team." Naoto grimaced for a moment, before turning and smiling at the woman. "Good morning, Missus Matsukawa. Got your boning knives today?"


The woman grunted something indecipherable before moving off with Naoto towards the doorway of the office. I shrugged and beckoned the next person forwards. Naoto had volunteered yesterday to handle the disposal of the two hundred and eighty-one bodies left in the wake of our operation and had put out the call for people with experience as butchers or slaughterhouse workers. Presumably, the woman had been one of those.


That particular task was a priority, especially since eighty-nine of those bodies were Britannian. At first, I had planned to leave them where they lay to convince the Britannians that some outside faction had engaged in hit-and-run attacks on the gang locations independent of the local people of Shinjuku. Of course, that idea had been part of a larger plan that had succumbed to resistance from an unanticipated source, Diethard Reid.


To my surprise, Diethard had flatly declined to run the story about Britannians running shady criminal operations in the Ghetto.


"It's not enough," he'd explained via Kallen's phone the afternoon after the raids. "I warned you that you'd need a smoking gun if you really wanted to accomplish anything, and this isn't it. I joined to see history being made, but I can guarantee this whole thing would blow over in a week, two tops. Clovis would get to demand some extra gifts, a few offices would change hands, and I'd probably be helped out a window or down a flight of stairs.


"Until you can get something more substantive," the irritating producer had concluded, "something that names big names, not just names next to big names, I'm not running it. Face it, the Britannian audience isn't going to care about tax dodges and weeping Elevens. Come back when you've got something that adds up to more than a slap on the wrist."


The prospect of overruling him had been extremely tempting, but I'd forced my initial frustration down after curtly telling Diethard that I'd call him back. Kallen had been gratifyingly indignant on my behalf, freely vocalizing my anger at the impudent man for me.


"I agree completely," I'd said, smiling at Kallen, who'd truly been a sight for sore eyes even with the sweat rolling down her face from our hand-to-hand training session. "Mister Reid is unquestionably an ass, and it would be incredibly satisfying to decorate a wall with the contents of his skull. Unfortunately, forcing him into submission would be a losing game; besides, he might actually have a point."


"A point?" Kallen's reply had been openly incredulous. "The whole point of the operation was getting all that dirty laundry, right? The goal was to make the Brits rip themselves to pieces! If that bastard's not gonna do it, what was the point?"


"Well, for one thing, we successfully rescued two hundred and fifty-six women and children from the gangs." Despite my mild tone, Kallen had winced. I hadn't meant it as a rebuke, but she'd clearly taken it as such. "But he does have a point. One way or another, almost a hundred Britannians died in Shinjuku. If that becomes public knowledge, even if we aren't implicated, the possibility of another unanticipated outburst like the Christmas Incident remains."


Kallen had paled at the reminder and nodded her understanding. "Yeah… Well, I guess we did get something. No need to be greedy, even if it does leave a bad taste in my mouth, letting that piece of shit tell us what to do."


"It's all about the give and take," I'd continued as we went back into the circle chalked on the training mats, "While we could destroy each other, him being broken as a traitor benefits us as little as our mass execution benefits him. Twisting his arm won't do anything to benefit Japan. On the other hand, letting him run the stories he wants could benefit us both in the long run, advancing the Cause. Now, let's work on your grapple again."


And so for now, the secrets we had purchased with blood and bullets would remain secret. Perhaps they would enter the public sphere in the future, or perhaps they would eventually benefit the Cause by way of blackmail.


Another person stepped up into the small patch of empty space at the foot of my table with a chirpy "Good morning, Commander!"


I narrowed my eyes at the insufferably energetic boy – and a boy he was, even if he was at least three years my senior. The last one was almost sleepwalking, and this guy is practically exploding out of his shoes. A pity the energy levels aren't distributed more equally.


"Good morning, Takahiro," I replied, resisting the urge to bark at the youth to wipe the stupid grin off his face. "You seem quite energetic this morning. I expect you to channel that vigor toward your work today, understand? More shoveling, less flexing in front of Rin and Miyu today."


"No worries, Commander!" Takahiro said, eyes bright and utterly devoid of shame, grin widening as the room broke into rueful and sympathetic laughter. "I'm gonna shovel up so much garbage that my biceps will get huge in no time! That way, I won't need to flex in front of the girls – I'll have one on each arm, enjoying the gun show up close!"


The room exploded into laughter, only some of it lecherous, at the lame joke. One of the men clustered around the table clapped Takahiro on the shoulder. In a more regimented setting, in a different life, I'd have had Takahiro down on the floor giving me pushups until his vaunted biceps quivered with exhaustion; here in a volunteer organization that relied on high morale to maintain group cohesion, I rewarded the attempt at humor with a raised brow.


As far as stimulants go, at least bad jokes are cheaper than coffee. Even the crap sold as store-brand instant, which… is admittedly still pricey, if you factor in the risks inherent in smuggling bulk goods into Shinjuku.


I allowed things to quiet down before responding. "Congratulations, Takahiro," I started with a smile even I'd categorize as threatening, "for volunteering your and your crew's services as haulers for the day. There's no shortage of garbage in need of urgent disposal, including lots of nice heavy building rubble. Go see Nagata for the keys to the dump truck."


I hesitated, and then relented and opted to show the boy some mercy. It would have felt like kicking a puppy otherwise. "Feel free to drag your friends into it as well. After all, a job shared is a job halved, and I'm sure they'll appreciate the experience of carrying your burdens."


"You bet! Thanks, Tanya!" The little shit's grin somehow got even wider as he gave me a sloppy salute. "You'll never see streets as clean as they're gonna be by dinner time tonight!"


"...I'm sure" I pointed at the door with an unimpressed look. "But if you have enough free time to keep dawdling around here, I might have you put it to work cleaning the sewers too."


That finally got a reaction out of the kid as he hurried out the door just as a grizzled man stepped up to take his place.


"Alright," I turned back to my list, "I've got you on loading duty, Mister Yanagawa. I need you to take ten people and go find Nagata, and he'll tell you which boxes he needs you to load for the various lunch lines. Once the lunch prep is over, head to Kuyakusho Road and assist the road crew. There's plenty of potholes to be filled, and someone needs to shovel the gravel."


The process continued for another twenty minutes until the last of the crew leaders closed the office door behind them as they left to find available hands, cutting off the dwindling sounds of breakfast. I hopped down from the table and dropped the assignment list, ticking off the first of many items from my internal list for the day with a sigh.


From behind her desk, Inoue looked up and shot me a sympathetic look. "Another day of fun and games, huh?"


"Don't I know it," I groused, stretching until I felt my back pop. "And not swatting Takahiro was probably the easiest item on my list today. Not swatting the old bastards in Kyoto is going to be far more taxing, even if they're technically too far away to hit."


"I'm sure you'd manage to find a way if they'd really earned it," Inoue reassured me, before turning back to her paperwork. "You are the reigning queen of ambushes, after all."


"Don't let Major Onoda hear you say that," I replied, ignoring the warmth in my cheeks at the compliment from a highly respected comrade, "he's bad enough without such a grievous personal slight lighting a fire under him."


"Go make your phone call," Inoue snorted, "and quit hovering. You're distracting me from my paperwork."


Resisting the urge to make a scathing parting remark – I was not hovering, no matter what Inoue said – I bid the Organization's quartermaster goodbye and made my way back to the apartment. Despite the short trip, every step I took was shadowed by Morihisa and Shuzo, sometimes known as Boar and Mallet, my assigned guards for the day.


Naoto had pushed for round-the-clock guard assignments after my speech, pointing out that my profile was now high enough that surviving gang members might specifically target me for retaliatory attacks. I hadn't protested – if a fight broke out, I'd want backup on hand, and since I'd helped train the pair I had no doubts about their competence.


As expected, no gangers lay in wait in the building's lobby nor on the staircase, and Morihasa and Shuzo took up their usual positions bracketing the door as I stepped into the apartment that had somehow become home to me over the last seven months.


The burner phone, delivered to me via a figurative railroad of hands that terminated with Nagata, who had passed it to me this morning along with the note specifying the time of the call, had only a single number saved in its list of contacts. I took a moment to spin up my enhancement suite, more as a calming mechanism than out of a serious belief that I was in imminent physical danger, and dialed the lone contact.


The phone on the other end of the line rang once, and then I heard an unfortunately familiar voice, just as dispassionate as I'd remembered, greet me. "Hello, Miss Hawthorne. You've had quite the eventful week, haven't you?"


"Hello," I greeted the man from Kyoto, "I would like to say that it's a pleasure to hear from you again. I will thank you for your advice, the last time we spoke; Major Onoda has been quite the boon to this Organization. Your facilitation is thoroughly appreciated. And yes, I have been very busy of late. Spring is the time for new beginnings, isn't it?"


"Quite," the droll voice replied, "although you could argue that every beginning entails the ending of what came before. In particular, it seems like the recent collapse of the organized underworld in Shinjuku has effectively brought an end to several potentially lucrative opportunities."


"Quite the tragic development for many, I'm sure," I said, affecting a disinterested air; the preliminaries were seemingly over, which meant it was time for negotiations to begin in earnest. "That said, I personally have little sympathy for drug peddlers and less for human traffickers. It's quite amusing, in a way: I'm sitting on a literal ton of amphetamines and other goodies, and I have no use for any of it. Frankly, I'd be tempted to tip it all into Tokyo Bay if I wasn't so worried about the environmental impact."


"How unfortunate," the man from Kyoto said, voice as dry as a desert, "but based on my understanding, it's not only the ready-to-ship product taking up your storage space, is it?"


"You have good sources," I smiled joylessly, baring my teeth at the wall, "you are quite well informed. Yes, Mister Kozuki was able to handle the guards and the floor manager before they could attempt any sabotage. As a consequence, we have come into possession of a large amount of chemicals that could presumably be processed into Ice with the help of some industrial lab equipment. Which we also have, and would love to see gone."


"I see, I see…" I could hear a pen scratching against paper as the representative of the SIx Houses muttered. "Hmm… Well, I suppose that could be of some minor interest to my managers. It would cut down on the cost of setting up a new laboratory from scratch, although transportation would be an issue, I suppose…"


"As you remarked during our first meeting, the maglev is a highly convenient method of transport, particularly now that direct services run between the greater Kanto area and Kyoto." My smirk was definitely coming through my voice, but I didn't try to hide it. I had the leverage here, and two-bit bargaining stratagems wouldn't work on me. "I'm sure your masters will have little trouble finding eager hands to help you ship your goods, especially if you pay in specie."


"Trade is the lifeblood of our enterprise; I am sure my employers would be happy to properly compensate any individuals or groups in Shinjuku willing to prove themselves helpful." The mild statement was a poor veil for the threat to sponsor potential rivals for control over Shinjuku. While that had been a concern during past negotiations, things had changed despite the wealth and influence the Six Houses could still bring to bear.


After all, it's hard to have much moral authority when you refuse to get your hands dirty.


"I'd be happy to provide a list of hard workers, free of charge. Think of it as a gesture of friendship." They would all be quite loyal workers as well – loyal to me. Hopefully, that would reduce the number of new spies whoever Kyoto sent managed to recruit. "In fact, as a further friendly gesture, I'll let you know that we recovered more than just a ton of meth from the lab. It turns out that production did not take up the whole warehouse, leaving the remainder to serve its original role as storage space."


"Oh? Well, good for you, I suppose." The man from Kyoto's bland voice slipped into a disinterest so profound it had to be feigned. "I don't suppose they were just storing extra tires, were they?"


"Nothing so useful," I scoffed, "in fact, nothing remotely useful at all. At least amphetamines have some medical use. Refrain, on the other hand, is just entirely useless to any but the most depraved or the most degraded."


"Refrain?" The waver in the man's voice was barely there, just the smallest of hitches in his voice. I likely would have never noticed had my enhancement suite not overclocked my brain. "How… Peculiar. And potentially valuable. That said, we aren't interested in any petty exchanges. How much product did you recover?"


"One of my associates estimates roughly four hundred thousand doses, already packaged in vials for distribution," I casually passed on Tamaki's estimate with all of the interest of a waiter reciting the daily specials. The enthusiasm that sold my message to the people wouldn't work here; instead, I needed to be as relentlessly and obviously bored as possible to really make my products seem worthwhile. "I think there's a few injector guns included too."


For a moment, the line was silent except for the slow, heavy breathing of the man from Kyoto, barely audible even with my hearing boosted to superhuman levels. Then, with an admirable attempt at a bored affectation, "Four hundred thousand doses, already packaged for sale, you say?"


"At least for distribution," I replied with a shrug. "And all of them completely useless, at least for me. You wouldn't happen to have any interest in almost half a million vials of Refrain, would you? I know that pharmaceuticals are outside of the two primary industries your group dabbles in, but…"


"I'm sure we could find a use for such an asset," the cultivated disinterest had returned to the man from Kyoto's voice, bland as beige. It was almost convincing. "Not that we particularly need to expand at present; business is good, after all. But in such uncertain times, it's good to diversify."


"Of course," I readily agreed, "and times are hard indeed. I wouldn't want to overly impact your organization or the good work you do. In the spirit of mutual cooperation that has marked our relationship so far, I will keep my requests modest. Four hundred thousand kilograms of lentils or beans, four hundred thousand kilograms of rice or other cereals, one hundred thousand kilograms of soy, fifty thousand kilograms of salt, and fifty thousand liters of vegetable oil. Also, four pallets of vitamin supplements. Preferably the five-hundred count bottles."


"Impossible." The man from Kyoto snapped, mildly irritated. "It can't be done. What do you even need a thousand tons of dry goods for anyway?"


"You might not realize," I began, choosing my words with care, "that outside of Kyoto, virtually every Number in Japan balances on the ragged edge of starvation, and that chronic malnutrition is the order of the day. I understand that your organization prioritizes armed confrontation, as is your prerogative as weapon manufacturers and industrialists, but please understand that a man weakened by hunger is an ineffective fighter at best, and a rotting corpse at worst."


"The general food insecurity of the Eleven population isn't exactly a great secret," the representative replied snippily, "but you're asking for too much. Several trainloads of food arriving in Shinjuku is far more difficult to hide than a few truckloads of our finest merchandise."


"Then don't make it a secret," I felt a familiar smile, a professional smile, spread across my face. I had him on the ropes if he was making such weak excuses. "Flaunt it instead. Make it an open donation. The Rising Sun Benevolent Association is an officially registered charity, complete with a noble charter. I'm sure they would love a donation from the Numbers Advisory Council, and I'm sure your masters would love some good PR for once. We'll even send a thank you card."


"...Audacious as always," remarked the gray man, "but audacity sometimes triumphs. I will pass your proposal on to the board – I'm reasonably certain that at least one of them would be eager to champion your terms. Now, unless there's anything else…?"


"There is, in fact," I broke in, "I'd like to place an order from your more standard catalog."


"Oh? Interested in some bullets to accompany the beans?" The dry voice spoke of mild amusement at an old and familiar joke, almost a private ritual.


"Indeed, and bandages too." I pulled the scribbled list of figures from my pocket. For all that Naoto had noble education under his belt, his handwriting was still nearly illegible. "First, let me point out that the estimated value, as best as I could figure, for one point two tons of unadulterated meth is one point eight million pounds. You owe me, and that's not even counting the additional value of the Refrain, about four hundred and eighty thousand pounds."


"Careful now, Miss Hawthorne," the dry voice was like a fingernail lightly rasping across the skin of my ear. "Be very careful. Wholesale deals are quite tricky, after all. Come now, be honest – you don't have any other options besides us, do you? No need to ruin a deal that could keep every mouth in Shinjuku fed for at least a few weeks, depending on how strictly you ration it."


"You are definitely my preferred purchaser, but you are far from the only interested party." I'd come prepared for this sticking point in particular. I'd known that the old bastards in Kyoto would do their best to inflict an unequal deal if I didn't push for every inch, and their representative had acted exactly as I'd expected.


"For one," I briskly continued, "I could sell the material back to the Britannians. I'd need an intermediary, but I already have one lined up. The Chinese would be more tricky, mostly due to the transportation issues, but I'd be willing to give them a discount on account of the oceanic shipping; I'm not unreasonable, and neither are my expectations."


This was half a bluff on my part. I had little doubt that Diethard could find a whole series of buyers interested in retailing amphetamines, but it was unlikely he'd be willing to act as the Britannian face for a wholesale distribution operation. The Chinese were an even longer reach, although I had little doubt that the superpower across the Sea of Japan had seeded agents in every Eleven ghetto near a port. It would take longer to find a broker, but it was still plausible.


Half a bluff or not though, I was still confident in my abilities to sell this deal to Kyoto House. And… Even if I didn't manage to close the deal, my willingness to bow and scrape for the collaborators in the ancient capital was practically spent. Their testing mission had led to a bloodbath, they had deliberately tried to put a stumbling block in my path via Onoda, and they had forced me to sell my organization's services to the JLF in exchange for basic supplies.


There will be, I swore to myself, a reckoning. Japan will be independent with or without these Honorary parasites, and fairweather friends will not be spared the rope if examples prove necessary. If they can't or won't help us now, then they are Britannians in all but blood.


A minute passed in silence, and then another. Digging for every scrap of information I could find, I tuned my enhancement suite to boost my hearing yet further still. Over the line, I could still hear the rhythmic breathing of the man from Kyoto, accompanied by the ever-so-faint periodic scratching of pen on paper.


There must be someone else in the room with him, I realized. He's the mouthpiece, but they're passing notes and giving him his instructions.


"My schedule is quite cramped today," I said, breaking the silence, "and I know you're not alone. I also know that you were sufficiently expendable to be sent to a low-level meeting in the Tokyo Settlement. If you cannot make a decision, kindly pass the phone over to someone who can."


The regular breaths stilled, and for a moment I wondered if I'd gone too far. Then, a moment later, another voice came onto the line.


"Hajime Tanya… I've heard surprisingly much about you…" The new voice was robust, but a quaver betrayed this second stranger's advanced age. "Some have started calling you the Savior of Shinjuku… Others whisper that you have the blessing of the kami and that the dust and wind disguise your appearance and conceal your footfalls… Quite remarkable rumors for a hafu who can't even claim to be a teenager…"


"I've never claimed to be a savior," I replied, keeping the anger at that old familiar slur from my voice as I balled my free hand into a fist, "nor do I claim divine blessing. I will, however, claim my identity as Japanese, no matter what color my eyes are or who my father was. Indeed, I've never been anything but Japanese, something that I doubt you can say no matter how black your hair is."


"They say you're quite the passionate one…" The elderly voice chuckled into the line, "and that rumor at the very least is true… Perhaps the other ones are too… After all, a thousand tons of foodstuffs would feed every mouth in Shinjuku…"


"But only for a few days, perhaps two weeks if everybody got a single meal a day," I cut in, "and as far as I can tell, the approximate value of the food would only come to a hundred and eighty thousand pounds, plus shipping. The pharmaceuticals I've got are easily worth twelve times that amount. I fully anticipate that you will come out ahead in our dealings, but I won't be fobbed off with a pittance while the city around me starves."


"Passionate indeed… Perhaps too much… Don't push me, girl. I've buried better than you." The musing tone and geriatric cadence abruptly switched to a rough, almost ursine growl. "You're good, but you're not special. You have a talent for organization, but you are arrogant as well, arrogant and easily baited. Young blood might run hot, but a loose tongue will see you broken on a wheel if left uncontrolled."


The familiar grandstanding of the old, powerful, and complacent. I snarled internally. As if I didn't already know that my entire life is spent dancing on the edge of a knife?


"Threats are meaningless unless backed by action," I riposted, entirely unimpressed with the old codger's threats, "and I have yet to see anything from you or your House that indicates the necessary testicular fortitude to follow through. You are powerful, I admit, powerful and rich, but the sharpest sword is useless in hands too weak to lift it."


I stopped myself before I could truly let my rage take me. Collaborators or not, they are still useful. No need to burn bridges before I've crossed them.


"But," I injected a conciliatory note into my voice, "we truly are on the same side, aren't we? The ultimate aim of the Six Houses is the liberation of Japan, for what else would justify the willful endangerment of your cushy positions in the Britannian Administration? I have the same goal. And, while I respect how you and yours have kept the hearth-fire of Japanese freedom banked through these bitter years, the times are changing. Can't you feel it in the wind? The status quo has been dead for almost four months now."


"Liberation doesn't mean the same thing to everybody," the quavering voice remarked, "and there are many different possible Japans that could rise from the embers if that happy day ever truly comes. The enemy of my enemy is not my friend, no matter how similar our goals may be."


"True enough," I acknowledged, "but no matter what Japan the future might hold, a land empty of its people is a hollow victory at best. At this moment, my primary concern is keeping as many of our people alive as possible. Whoever pushes the Britannians off our sacred shores will need strong backs and full bellies to rebuild a nation once again. Surely we can find common ground over that shared goal?"


"Indeed," the man on the other end of the line grumbled, cadence slowing down once more. "But people will remember who brought them food… Gratitude is fleeting as far as coins go… But it buys power… At least as long as the bellies are full…"


"You can take the credit." The answer was obvious; it was absurd that this was even an issue. "I already told your man that the Rising Sun would happily send a thank you card for your 'donation' of food. I meant that sincerely; if you are willing to sell and ship food to Shinjuku, you are free to take the credit as publicly as you wish. I would be willing to praise your name in the Meeting Hall if that would help ease your worries."


"Hmph…" The voice wavered indecisively, the aged quaver strengthening as the thoughtful hum dragged on. "Well… What else were you going to ask for…? Out with it. Let's hear what you have to say…"


"Two more shipments of the same composition and value, to be shipped at your cost," I replied promptly, "which would come to about five hundred and forty thousand pounds in total.


"Further, I have two lists of further inventory items, one of construction materials and some tools, the other of your usual stock in trade, namely munitions." I loosened my tightly clenched fist, flexing my fingers to try to get the pins and needles of impacted circulation out. "I wouldn't want to bore you by reading them out in full, so I will deliver them via your agent, Asahara, instead. There's nothing overly exotic on either."


"And the total…?" The old man's voice had relaxed a bit too, just slightly. The firm tone typical to hardball negotiators the world over was still present, but the fire had banked. "Come on, girl, I know you have it. You've had every other number on hand…"


"Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds for the construction equipment and tools, four hundred thousand pounds for the weapons," I smoothly replied, quickly consulting Naoto's notes. "Together with the food shipments, that's a total of one million, three hundred and ninety thousand pounds. Deducted from the estimated value of the drugs, Kyoto House stands to profit by eight hundred and ninety thousand pounds, complete with favorable PR."


"Done," the old man barked, some of the vigor returning to his voice, "contingent on the reception of your lists and the verification of the estimated prices, and contingent on an analysis of the product's purity conducted by our personnel."


"I accept," I said, the words sweet on my tongue. If I were back in the Japan of my first life, I would have been raked over the coals for agreeing to such a lopsided deal. Here, at the head of a comparatively powerless insurrectionary body, I was just happy that negotiations had been civilized for once.


I didn't even need to kill anybody this time! Perhaps even the old bastards can learn!


"Good… Good…" The vigor faded, leaving a tired old man behind once more. "We'll be in touch soon… Hajime Tanya… I will be watching your career with interest… Take care…"


"And you as well, Mister Kyoto," the typical pleasantry sliding effortlessly off my tongue as I relaxed at the familiar ritual marking the end of a business call. "And long live Japan."


A minute hesitation, and then a murmured voice replied. "Long live Japan, and long live the Imperial Family. Revere the Emperor, expel the barbarians."


And with that, the phone went dead in my hand. I dropped it on the battered old table and collapsed down onto Oghi's bunk, suddenly exhausted.


I had done it.


I had secured possibly the most important deal of my life. There would be food for a while, long enough for arms to grow strong and for minds to focus beyond aching bellies. And in those minds, at least for a while, Japan would live on for just a little while longer.



---------



APRIL 26, 2016 ATB
SHINJUKU GHETTO, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
1235


"-and I met with the technician Kyoto House dispatched to evaluate the purity and quantity of the samples this morning." I stopped to take a bite of my bean soup, helping the spoonful of lentils down with a quick sip of water. "Happily, he had no complaints about either."


"So, that's it then, right?" asked Naoto from the end of the table. "The deal's done?"


"That's right," I confirmed, "and judging by how surprised Kyoto's man was, the quality of the product was quite high. Which," I continued contemplatively, "probably means that the Six Houses got an even better deal out of this than they'd anticipated."


"Well, hopefully, they'll put at least some of that money back into helping Japan," Inoue said, although she didn't sound particularly optimistic. "But even if they don't, a windfall like that might make negotiations easier the next time around."


"Assuming this doesn't all blow up in our faces somehow," I replied, trying not to sound too dour. "For all we know, a major 'donation' from a third party will give Clovis, or somebody close to him, an excuse to end the food dole. After all, Elevens don't need to eat that much, right? And ClovisLand North isn't going to pay for itself."


Early on in his reign as Area Eleven's Viceregal-Governor, Prince Clovis had proclaimed that nobody would starve under his benevolent leadership. While the Britannian press had lauded the prince's "fair but firm paternalistic heart" to the skies, it had been blatantly obvious to everybody that some form of food aid was necessary if the Area wanted a workforce after the mass starvation during the first year after the Conquest.


To accomplish the lofty goal of ending starvation in Area Eleven, Clovis had instituted a food distribution program in the urban ghettos across the Area. Like most things Britannian, the program had been poorly thought-out and rife with corruption. The food deliveries came irregularly, and the food that ended up in Shinjuku was far too little and often already rotten by the time it arrived. Much of it also fell into the hands of local gangs and petty warlords.


In spite of the mismanagement and cut corners, the program had worked as intended. Crews of hollow-cheeked workers overseen by better-fed Honorary Britannians had built the Britannian Concession and the ever-expanding Tokyo Settlement. Hungry workers with just enough calories to survive a day's hard labor had stepped up for the chance to work in poorly managed and incredibly unsafe manufacturies, at the constantly busy docks, and on innumerable job sites.


Of course, the work crews had never been acknowledged for their hard labor. The Britannians credited the speedy rise of their abomination of a city to their civilianized construction KMFs, the great machines strengthening the foundations of the empire on and off the battlefield. While the construction Knightmares had proven invaluable, without the efforts of tens of thousands of Elevens, the Concession that loomed over Tokyo on massive stilt-like supports would still be decades in the future.


But, the food had kept the Ghetto alive too, even as the Concession rose and the Settlement spread. Indeed, the ingredients in the soup I had purchased with my labor during the years between the Conquest and the death of my mother had come from that dole. The fact that I had been practically a walking skeleton when I met Ohgi and Naoto spoke volumes about the food program's efficacy, but the same could be said for the fact that I was alive to meet them at all.


"If the Prince is going to halt the distribution over something so petty, then it was always going to happen some time or another," Souichiro said, speaking up for the first time since our working lunch had begun. "That being said, I don't know how I feel about turning to… Honoraries… to keep us alive. I understand that we don't have a choice, but…"


"Food is food," Naoto opined with a shrug, "and these particular Honoraries are the same ones funding the JLF. They really are the best option, for now at least."


"For now," Souichiro reluctantly agreed. "I still don't like it, though."


"I like starving to death less." I gestured with my spoon. Predictably, the grumbling ceased at the reminder of the most likely alternative. Pride and ideological purity couldn't fill empty stomachs, after all.


"Moving on to the next topic," I pushed the empty bowl away from me, "Inoue, how is the reunion plan going?"


"Mixed results, I'd say," the logistics officer replied, "we've managed to find a few of the girls' families, but, well… Most of them don't really have families. Not anymore. Some of them might still have relatives in Saitama, but unless we load them on a truck and have Nagata drive them over for a visit…"


"I understand," I said, closing my eyes as I thought for a moment. I had put Inoue in charge of the slaves we had liberated during the raids, and she had delegated the task to Kasumi, her assistant and a former slave liberated from a gang herself. Kasumi had spent the last three days working herself to the bone to find surviving relatives to place the women and girls with, but it sounded like efforts had stalled out.


"I suppose we could hand them over to Chihiro," Naoto said, voice slow and full of reservation. The unspoken "but…" hung heavily over the table. "I mean, she has taken care of most of the rest…"


"Chihiro is already unstable," I replied firmly, "and I am increasingly dubious of her value to the Organization. She was intoxicated when I last met with her in the middle of the day and was both insubordinate and insulting. I would rather relieve her of command than entrust two hundred vulnerable people into her care."


"I agree with Tanya. Chihiro's recent behavior has been deplorable." Inoue's voice was hard and heated. "I understand that she's grieving, but we've all lost people and Makoto died weeks ago. If she can't handle loss without going to pieces, we can't let her stay a leader, especially not if she's becoming a drunk."


"Well, if we're not dumping them into Chihiro's lap, what are we going to do with them?" Naoto's tone was carefully neutral, although I doubted he had any more love for Chihiro than I did; she had never bothered to hide her antipathy for his mixed heritage any more than she had her feelings about mine. "Things are hard enough as is in Shinjuku without our own miniature refugee crisis."


"Break them up into groups of ten, with each group consisting of women of roughly the same age?" I suggested, turning to look at Naoto. "The adult groups can be distributed throughout the Rising Sun's area of control – ask the Council for volunteers to host them, and let them know that they'll get bonus rations for hosting. The children," I hesitated, "the children can stay in vacant apartments in our building. There are at least a few units empty, I think."


"Delegation, huh?" Naoto smiled knowingly. "Can't say I'm surprised. I'll raise the matter at the meeting at sixteen hundred."


"Fine. I think that's all of our outstanding business handled, yes?" I drummed my fingers quickly, scanning the other three faces around the table. "Alright. Let's get to why I called you here today."


"Besides the food?" Inoue grinned as she licked her spoon clean. "I thought you just wanted to share a meal with us, Tanya! I am hurt to hear that you had something else in mind!"


"You'll survive," I dryly replied in the face of snickers from Naoto and Inoue and a single muffled cough from Souichiro. "More to the point, we need to start thinking on a bigger scale. The deal with Kyoto is part of that, but even in that case we're still thinking too small."


"Half a million pounds worth of food is too small, huh?" Naoto asked as he leaned back in his chair, the question clearly rhetorical. "No, I get what you mean. Three million kilograms of food isn't very big, not when you're talking about a city."


"That's right," I agreed. "Let's talk about scale. At the moment, the Kozuki Organization itself has, in total, just over a hundred members, most of whom are still undergoing training at The School. The Rising Sun Benevolent Association has maybe twenty dedicated members who aren't also part of the Organization. Naoto, how many members would you say the Sun Guard has? I'm estimating somewhere between one thousand seven hundred and two thousand."


"Umm…" Naoto looked up at the ceiling for a moment, presumably distracted with internal calculations. "I'd say a bit more than that, but definitely no more than two thousand five hundred. And that's pushing it."


"Let's call it two thousand," I settled, "which gives us just over twenty-one hundred bodies across all three organizations. In other words, including noncombatants and untrained fighters armed only with sticks and knives, we have one percent of Shinjuku affiliated with us. That's not enough to control the Ghetto, much less conduct offensive operations."


"So, you're saying we need to recruit?" Souichiro asked, leaning forwards over his bowl. "I don't know how much use we'd get out of more recruits at the moment. Not until we can put guns in their hands, at least."


"True, we can't do much to expand our combat power at the moment," I nodded at the former police officer, "and I'm hoping the new arms we're purchasing from the Six Houses help with that particular problem. However, an army, even a guerrilla one, needs more than just frontline fighters. We also need to recruit engineers and medics, teamsters and administrators, mechanics, and even cooks.


"And then," I said, pausing slightly for effect, "there's intelligence. We have Diethard and Kallen, but two agents aren't enough. We need to find the people in the Ghetto who have work tickets and regular engagements in the Settlement, the ones who work as cleaners, janitors, and laborers in the Concession itself. Britannian arrogance likely keeps most of the occupiers from noticing servants, but they all have eyes and ears."


I stood up and began to pace back and forth as I continued. "Up until now, we've operated as a small, independent, armed band. We controlled limited amounts of territory, but virtually everybody in our organization was expected to be a frontline fighter, ready to pick up a gun at a moment's notice. We can no longer afford to think on such a limited level.


"When we took over Shinjuku," I continued, "we also took on the organizational requirements that come from running Shinjuku. A gang, or a militia, can't run a city. We know that for a fact. They simply lack organizational depth. Now, unless we want to lose control of the Ghetto in a few months, we need to stop thinking like a militia and start thinking like an army."


"Can you explain what you mean, Tanya?" Naoto inquired. "I mean, we've already implemented a training system or the start of one, and we've got something like a social services division with the Rising Sun and all that. That's beyond what gangs tend to do already, correct?"


"True," I agreed, "we've made a good start, but there's still a great deal to accomplish. For one, we need to start focusing on establishing institutions. Right now, everything is run on a more or less ad hoc basis, with personal loyalty to local leadership binding the Organization together. That will have to change. Personal loyalty only lasts as long as leaders can consistently deliver victory, and victory is never consistent over the long haul.


"We also need to start cultivating specialist units, particularly when we're talking about non-combat services. Inoue's an excellent quartermaster, and Nagata is a good driver, but what happens if they die? The institutional knowledge and skills die with them, without any clear idea about who takes over. No individual, not even you or I, Naoto, should be irreplaceable in an organization dedicated to fighting an empire that spans multiple continents."


I let that sit for a moment, giving my audience time to absorb my points. Change was difficult, but in our case, very necessary. The only reward for good work was, always, more work. Still, I was optimistic; my comrades had always risen to the challenge before, and I fully expected they would again.


"On another topic," I said a minute or so later, "we need to start thinking outside of Shinjuku. The outside world doesn't stop at the Ghetto's wall, and we need to stay on top of things. The situation in Niigata is turning into a quagmire for the Britannians, and while I'm sure the JLF are ecstatic about it, the rising food prices aren't helping matters here. Worse, the Britannians are also increasingly aware of the threat represented by Japanese uprisings; their complacency is waning in favor of paranoia. Sooner or later, they will act on that fear.


"At the moment, the Rising Sun has a presence only in Shinjuku, and the Kozuki Organization only has a single small outpost outside these walls. This is an issue for many reasons, the worst of which is that Shinjuku is entirely indefensible."


I turned on my heel to face my fellow insurgents. "Which brings me to my next point; we need to increase the scale of our operations, both in terms of expanding our organization and in terms of ensuring that we cannot be destroyed by a single catastrophe."


"We have put all of our eggs in a single basket, haven't we?" Naoto remarked, "but expanding beyond Shinjuku is a pretty broad umbrella. I mean, for one thing, if we're already overstretched trying to keep the Ghetto under control, how are we going to find the manpower to establish branches elsewhere? And how do we make sure they stay loyal? That's a resource investment all on its own, especially if we intend to expand Rising Sun's operations too."


"I think we should start relatively small," I said, nodding to acknowledge our leader's point. "I left half of the graduated trainees behind at The School to act as a training cadre. I think that, combined with Ohgi and Major Onoda, they can handle another training cohort or two ahead of schedule. The sooner we can turn militia into soldiers, the better.


"As for further expansion, we need more on-the-ground information, first-hand observations, to get a feeling for the available options. I recommend deploying the two squads of trained fighters I brought with me as scouts. Major Onoda has trained them all in infiltration, long-range scouting, and information collection. They will also be useful in training anyone we recruit with the potential to play a dedicated undercover role, amongst the enemy."


Or, I thought, amongst our alleged allies. Kusakabe's surely up to something, considering his recent promotion, and I need to know what he's planning before he blindsides us as well as the Britannians.


"Can I add something?" Souichiro asked, and continued after I nodded and sat back down, leaving the proverbial and literal floor to him as he rose from his chair. "The School… It's in Gunma. My family's ancestral homeland. I've got a few cousins there, and if they're still alive, they're farmers. Even before the Conquest, people were leaving Gunma, heading to the cities… That means there are plenty of empty villages and fields. They just need to be cleared out, rebuilt…"


"So…" Inoue frowned, "you're thinking about sending civilians to Gunma too, not just trainees? That… That would actually solve a fair number of issues, but that would also be a huge resource sink."


"But it would be an investment too," Souichiro countered, "after all, every bushel of rice we can grow is one less we need to buy from the running dogs sitting in Kyoto. Beyond that, what happens if another Christmas Incident happens, only this time directed at Shinjuku? Every civilian we can get away from the mobs, the better." The older man glared at the rest of us. "We're here to protect them, aren't we? That's our job. That's why we're talking about food instead of bombs. To protect the people."


That was… Unusually spirited for Souichiro.


I remembered when I had first met him, back when Tamaki had brought him to the old basement headquarters. The former police officer had been a broken man, still mourning the loss of both of his sons, one to a Britannian bomb and the other to an honorary Britannian citizenship. Now, months later, he was vigorous, and years had fallen away from his graying head.


"You make a compelling point," I replied after a moment, "and I agree that we need to invest in our people's future. That said, I can't agree with this concept unless we have more tangible information to work with. For starters, we need to see if your cousins are still alive and if they're willing to help teach people how to farm. Also, if they have any seed grain available for sale."


"Also," Inoue chimed in, "we need to find one or two of those abandoned villages to use as models. At the very least, we'll need to figure out if we need to send one of our generators out there for power, not to mention portable stoves, water purifiers… The list goes on."


"And we need to figure out how the JLF will respond," Naoto added. "From what you reported, Tanya, the Britannian presence in northwestern Gunma is pretty light, but the JLF maintains a presence. The last thing we need is a fight over territory with them, or to get in the way of some sort of operation they're planning. Or even worse, stumble into some extra secret Brit operation or base. They do have a habit of showing up where you least want 'em."


"Quite," I agreed and turned back to Souichiro. "How do you feel about taking the lead on this one, Souichiro? You're the one with the personal connections to the locals, as well as some familiarity with the area. Ohgi can introduce you to Major Onoda to cover the JLF angle. I suspect," I continued, a note of annoyance creeping into my voice, "that the Major will have absolutely no problem collaborating with you."


"I'd be honored," Souichiro responded, bowing slightly at the waist. "It's been far too long since I last went home."


"Good," I said, continuing briskly along. "I'm planning on sending Tamaki, his squad of pet goons, and about forty Sun Guards to The School. Find two or three people to help you out in Gunma, and you can travel with them. Get a list of what you'll need together, including whatever 'gifts' might be necessary. You'll be heading out in two days."


"Very well." Souichiro pushed his chair back under the table and retrieved his hat. "I'll begin my preparations immediately. Thank you for entrusting this mission to me."


"Thank you for your idea," I replied, waving a quick goodbye as he left before turning back to my two comrades. We waited in silence as the sound of footsteps receded down the hallway, and then continued to sit quietly until Shuzo, Mallet, poked his head in through the door.


"He left the building without talking to anybody, Ma'am," he reported, "and it looks like he's heading back towards the Meeting Hall."


"Thank you, Shuzo," I said, acknowledging his report with a nod, not looking away from my comrades as the soldier withdrew from the room. "Your thoughts?"


"I don't think he's the mole," Naoto said thoughtfully. "I didn't think he was before the meeting, and I don't think he is now. Definitely not for the Six Houses, at least. No way he'd work with them – that disgust in his voice was too real. I don't think that his son working for one of their companies means anything important; it's pretty clear that 'Keith' is dead to him."


"It could be a long con," Inoue countered unenthusiastically, "I mean… It could be. I just don't see Souichiro being able to pull it off. He's, well…"


"Painfully straight-laced?" Naoto supplied with a slash of a grin, "yes, during the time we've worked together, he's always struck me as a 'by the books' man, very uncomfortable with duplicity or misdirection."


"He's also hierarchy-focused," I mused, thinking about how Souichiro still lapsed into a more formal cadence whenever he replied to questions or orders. "I'm inclined to agree. If he's a spy, he certainly isn't Kyoto's."


"Which," Naoto began with a heavy sigh, "leaves Chihiro. Unless anybody thinks Nagata or Tamaki is telling tales out of school?"


"Not Tamaki, but I have considered Nagata as a real possibility," I admitted. "He was around to hear about the Lacy Garter plan, and considering how much he cares about them, his wife and child represent a solid hook. On the other hand, he was also the one who volunteered to introduce me to Mister Asahara, and he's the one Kyoto House used to pass the burner to me. The fact that he's openly associated with a Kyoto agent makes it hard to believe that he's a spy."


"I mean, unless he doesn't know he's a spy? For all he knows," Naoto pointed out, "he's just talking with a friend or whoever about what he's doing, and that friend is passing information on. I'm not saying it's likely, but maybe our problem isn't a mole, but just loose lips?"


"That's possible," I allowed, "and I really hope that you are correct about that. The idea that any of our comrades have been informing on us to anybody, even nominal allies, is… distressing."


That was putting it mildly. It had become increasingly clear that Kyoto House had a source close to the Kozuki Organization if not inside it, a source that had kept them annoyingly well informed about our group and our operations and internal dynamics. I had not wanted to acknowledge the possibility, but my conversation with Kyoto the other day had forced my hand. If I had to negotiate with Kyoto House, I couldn't allow information leakage, accidental or deliberate.


"Do you really think Chihiro could be spying on us?" Inoue asked, her tone full of a curiosity that I would call idle if I didn't know how proactive she could be. "I know that she dislikes both of you for stupid reasons, but that doesn't make her a spy. She's also not the only one who feels like that in Shinjuku, I'm sorry to say."


"I think Tanya and I are both fully aware of that," Naoto dryly replied, "but no, I don't think she's a spy. She wears her heart on her sleeve and is completely unable to control herself when she gets angry. I'm pretty sure she'd have outed herself by now if she was a traitor."


"No, it probably isn't her directly." I agreed with a shake of my head. "Given how much she hates Britannia, and myself and Naoto by association, I don't see her doing a bunch of powerful, shadowy, collaborators any favors on purpose."


"Alternatively… She could think that she's talking to a spy for the JLF or some other resistance group and have no idea who she's really feeding info to," Naoto mused. "It's not like a spy would be above lying about their loyalties."


Slowly, I nodded as I turned the idea over in my head. While he usually blended in quite well with the rest of us these days, a far cry from his occasionally ignorant or overly sensitive reactions back when I had first met him, sometimes it was still obvious that Naoto was from a Britanian noble family, at least as a bastard. After all, when it comes to duplicity, who can rival the Britannian nobility in their mastery of the art?


"Perhaps," I allowed, "or maybe she simply lacks any grasp of operational security; like with Nagata, rather than being a mole specifically, she might just be overly talkative. Alcohol in abundance will do that to a person, after all. Her hotel headquarters seemed pretty chaotic as well – it'd be hard to keep tabs on everybody there. It might not even be a person, her place could be bugged to listen to her drunken rants."


"Hmm…" Naoto rubbed his chin. "That's a good point. On the other hand, we have plenty of reasons to shitcan Chihiro, even if she isn't a spy…"


"Or," Inoue interrupted, "we could simply remove her from that environment and send her elsewhere. She's very passionate, and she clearly understands how to appeal to people; all of her girls follow her first, us second. Expelling her from the group could lead to a fracture – on the other hand, sending her on a scouting or a recruiting mission elsewhere could turn her back into an asset?"


"And separating her from her power base would give us a chance to bring them back into the fold," I said, nodding along to Inoue's point, "preserving resources and maintaining institutional homogeneity. Saitama might be a bit too close for that, but Yokohama's almost thirty kilometers away."


"And the largest Britannian naval base in the Area is less than ten kilometers from the Yokohama Ghetto, down at Yokosuka," Inoue pointed out. "I know that she's not exactly trained as a scout or an infiltrator, but surely even an untrained observer could dig up something of use down there."


"At the very least, she could warn us if all of the marines start heading north towards Tokyo," I agreed. "Hopefully, though, having her work in an environment rich with acceptable targets will prove a useful outlet for her issues. Especially if she doesn't think she has to worry about us hovering over her."


"And that dovetails neatly with our pre-existing plan to scout for potential expansion opportunities outside of Shinjuku."


"Yes, about that," Naoto leaned back in again, "where were you thinking of sending your teams, Tanya?"


"One team's going to Maebashi," I replied immediately. "If our fallback location from Shinjuku is going to be Gunma, which Souichiro's suggestion would probably lead to, we need eyes and ears in the prefectural capital. It's also the largest city in the prefecture, and probably the best place for local recruits. The proximity to The School will help us shuffle training cohorts in and out, along with supplies.


"As for the second location, I was thinking either Mito, in Ibaraki Prefecture, or Utsunomiya in Tochigi. I haven't made up my mind about which would be better, though. Each has strong arguments for and against – more of Tochigi Prefecture is rural, and it borders Gunma, meaning it has many of the same advantages. A foothold in Ibaraki, on the other hand, might allow us to form connections with the seaborne smuggling community."


"Go for Ibaraki," Naoto replied firmly. "The Oarai Isosaki and Oiwa Shrines are both located in the province, and can personally attest that Oiwa, at least, was still intact if abandoned as of three years ago. Lord Daikoku, the god of nation-building, is enshrined on the Oarai Coast; his blessing will surely help us prevail."


"...Well, I suppose such sentiments could prove helpful for recruitment," I conceded. Naoto, religious foibles or not, was the leader of the group for a reason. Perhaps he had seen something I'd overlooked. "I'm sure Yoshi will enjoy some seaside air as well."



---------



APRIL 26, 2016 ATB
SHINJUKU GHETTO, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
1507


"Missus Tsuchiya, right?" I exchanged bows with the woman, noting the vaguely harried look in her eyes. "Please, come in. Have a seat."


"Thank you very much, Miss Hajime." Despite her weathered features and the deep stress lines carved across her cheeks, Tsuchiya Hitomi still moved gracefully, carefully pulling out her chair before perching on the very edge, legs primly crossed. The years had not been kind to the former assistant principal; though I knew she was thirty-eight, she looked like she was already in her mid-fifties.


"I want to thank you for responding so quickly to my message," I began, smiling politely from across Inoue's desk. "As soon as I proposed this initiative, Kaname Ohgi all but insisted that you be involved. He was quite effusive in his praise of your skills as an educator and an administrator."


"I'm… very happy to hear that," the one-time assistant principal of Toyama Junior & Senior High School replied. "I was also very happy to hear that Mister Kaname was still alive… I haven't heard from him in years."


"I'm sure he'd be happy to catch up with you whenever he's next back in Shinjuku," I said smoothly, falling into the familiar cadence of office conversations across time and worlds, "although he is unfortunately away on assignment at present."


"Oh, that's…" Missus Tsuchiya struggled for a reply for a moment, "good, I suppose? I will look forward to the occasion."


"Indeed," I smiled, "now, onto business. I don't want to waste any more of your valuable time, Missus Tsuchiya, so I will be brief. Education is practically nonexistent in the Ghetto, except in the special case of the Shinjuku School for Elevens, where anything useful is so buried in propaganda that the whole structure is a net loss. It is long past time to tackle this issue."


"I'm definitely not against the idea…" Missus Tsuchiya said, her voice slow and heavy with some emotion I couldn't quite pinpoint. "But… How? I know of the Rising Sun, and I respect your work; you've fed me and my husband for a month now. But, and meaning no disrespect, you barely hold Shinjuku. Is this… Well, is this really something you can afford to focus on?"


"We can't afford not to focus on it." In that, I was certain. "The greatest wars are fought in the heart and the mind; what happens on the battlefield is just the byproduct. Make no mistake, the Britannians have sought to occupy our minds just as much as they have sought to break our bodies."


I paused, casting my mind back over the nearly six long years that had passed since the Conquest, searching for tangible examples of what I meant. There were too many painful memories to count, but two in particular would serve me well here. "...I saw the ashes of Naruko Tenjin Shrine myself. I have also sat through classes in the School for Elevens. I know of what I speak. If we do not teach the next generation, then we will be the last generation. Education for the Japanese and by the Japanese is the heart and soul of our struggle."


"I see, I think…" The former educator muttered, clearly mulling my words over. After a moment, she appeared to come to a decision. "Alright, Miss Hajime, you make a… compelling case. And, it's been far too long since I've heard anyone speak so passionately in favor of education, so… What are you looking for from me? How can I help?"


I can't quite tell if she's on board and asking for assignments, or if she's still non-committal and asking what her responsibilities would be. Why is she dragging her feet? I wondered, slightly frustrated by the ambiguity of the situation. Does she think this is a job interview? Ohgi said she was the best chance we have for reforming anything like a functional educational system!


For a moment, I tried to put myself in Missus Tsuchiya's shoes. She was a well-educated woman who had been a key member in an important pillar of pre-Conquest society, a high school attended by children of the upper-middle class. After years of desperation and struggle, it must be shocking to so suddenly be called back to duty.


"I have the utmost faith in your skills," I reassured the older woman, "and I am sure the children under the Rising Sun's care are eager to learn, if only so they have some structure to rely upon. I'm sure you understand how hard it is to feel secure when your daily schedule is unpredictable."


"That's very true," Missus Tsuchiya replied fervently, "and structure is definitely important when it comes to education and childcare. But, what exactly is it that you need from me?"


"First and foremost," I said, "I need names. Ohgi said that I should ask you for the names of other teachers, tutors, or other educators who might still live in Shinjuku. I'm not expecting you to teach the next generation by yourself, after all!"


I smiled politely, waiting for the obligatory chuckle in response to the ludicrous concept I'd just floated, but Missus Tsuchiya just looked relieved for some reason. Did she think I was expecting her to handle all eighty thousand children in Shinjuku on her own? Nonplussed, I continued.


"You will be given a budget to recruit any of your fellow teachers. We have a reserve of Britannian currency, but we can also pay in increased rations or by providing small luxury items on request," I explained. "Once you manage to recruit some staff, start working on a curriculum, and start working on a book list. I will put a bounty out on books that you recommend, so hopefully we won't need Britannian textbooks.


"Oh, and also," I continued as inspiration struck, "if you or the people you find happen to know any technical or vocational instructors, that would be useful too. We'll need to teach adults how to be electricians, welders, mechanics, and the like.


"And once you've got a curriculum and a materials list sorted out, well…" I shrugged. "I'm not going to dictate your job to you. Let me know what you will need to educate the children. I can set aside some of the rooms in the more intact office buildings for classrooms if those would be adequate; otherwise, I'm sure I can find some families willing to host sessions in their apartments. I might be busy in the near future, but Inoue Naomi will be on hand to help you out."


"Ah, good! That's… good to hear." Miss Tsuchiya smiled, bobbing her head in a nod of acknowledgment. "And…" She continued, somewhat hesitantly, "are you going to be joining the classes, Miss Hajime?"


"Ah," I replied eloquently, blinking in surprise. "Sorry, what? I don't know anything about education, so I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to help you conduct the classes. Inoue knows at least as much about the local supply situation as I do, so I don't think I can help you much there either."


"But…" And now Missus Tsuchiya was the one blinking in confusion. "But didn't you say you wanted the children under the Rising Sun's care to be educated? Weren't… Weren't you going to include yourself? There's no way you're over twelve – you must have been in first or second grade during the Conquest!"


I stared blankly at the former teacher, who I noticed had suddenly turned pale. That's right… Biologically, I just celebrated my twelfth birthday a month ago. I had almost forgotten that I'm still a child… Suddenly, Missus Tsuchiya's hesitant dithering made a great deal more sense. It must be strange as a teacher to take orders from a pre-teen… To rely on a child to keep you fed. She must have known before she had come, but seeing is believing, as the old line went.


"I-I'm sorry," Missus Tsuchiya said, her words jumbled, rushing over one another. "I didn't mean any disrespect. I know that you're quite important, and as a leader, you must be very busy. I'm sure you don't have any time, and you're clearly doing well for yourself…"


"No disrespect taken," I replied, holding up a hand to forestall the torrent of words. As soon as I raised my hand, the woman, old enough to be my mother, nearly bit her tongue as she slammed her jaws closed. "I didn't mean to alarm you. It's just… It's just been a while since I remembered that I am technically a child."


For some reason, Missus Tsuchiya looked incredibly sad for a moment, before her face firmed back up again. "Well, Miss Hajime, that's… Not entirely uncommon here in Shinjuku, I suppose. Lots of children have been forced to grow up far too quickly."


"I made it to the fourth grade, you know," I commented idly. "I was lucky enough to start kindergarten courseearly, and I managed to skip the third grade." It was meaningless trivia, but something inside me thrummed unpleasantly at the reminder of those long-gone days, when I still thought I had a chance to find a peaceful life. "My mother was very invested in my education."


She was always very invested in me, wasn't she? Even if she didn't need to be. I felt a lump in my throat. And where did it get her? Working hard for nothing, because she ended up in a dumpster all the same.


"I… see." Missus Tsuchiya said, her voice a bit hoarse. "I guess it isn't a surprise that you were a quick study, considering where you're sitting now. Thank you for this opportunity, Miss Hajime. I'd be honored if you chose to attend my class, but of course, I wouldn't want to impose. I will start reaching out to my old colleagues immediately; I'm sure they will be overjoyed to have the opportunity to teach again."


"Thank you for your time," I replied politely, if distractedly. The itchy heat in my eyes made it hard to focus, and a woman almost a year dead kept derailing my train of thought. "I appreciate your willingness to work with me. I am looking forward to hearing back from you soon."


The now no-longer former teacher said a polite goodbye that I could barely hear before all but fleeing from the office. I remained behind Inoue's desk for a few seconds, waiting until the sound of her footsteps disappeared into the hustle and bustle of the main hall before I got up, walked to the office door, and engaged the lock.


Ohgi was in Gunma, Kallen was in Ashford, and Naoto and Inoue were very busy, too busy to bother; aside from those four, I didn't want anybody else to see me cry.

 

[Scopas]

(Well, I got a bit overly ambitious this time around. With the advise of my beta readers and editors, I broke the 23k chapter that resulted into two halves. The upside of this is that the wait for the next chapter should be much shorter than usual. Thank you to, in no particular order, Siatru, Sunny, Restestsest, Mitch H., Rakkis157 and MetalDragon. I appreciate your help and advise.)


MAY 2, 2016 ATB
OUTPOST #2, CHUO WARD, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
1707


The gate of the Chuo outpost slammed shut on Corporal Kururgi and his fire team's heels. For the first time in months, they were out of uniform and outside of the confining walls of Britannian encampments. It was Monday night, and 2nd Company had, as a unit, been granted twenty-four-hour liberty, starting seven minutes ago.


There was, Corporal Kururugi reflected, something darkly amusing about Britannian officers giving their men any liberty. It wasn't as if they particularly cared about their men, nor the regulations stipulating the leave troops were supposed to receive in the wake of a combat assignment.


No, Corporal Kururugi was certain that the sudden decision to give the regiment a day of liberty, staggered out so only a company at a time would be free, had come as a consequence of the suddenly plummeting state of the 1st Regiment's morale after the return from Toyama. Even the Britannians, his superiors in rank and race, couldn't miss the men's sudden dourness, and even the Britannians weren't foolish enough to brush the suddenly sour mood off completely.


I think they were surprised at how hard everybody took losing the guns, Kururugi thought, bouncing idly on his heels as he stood in the street. It was a habit from his childhood he'd never quite lost; Lelouch had once remarked that his thoughts, unencumbered by obstructions in his empty head, must be striking the sides of his skull hard enough to lift him off his feet.


Suzaku had whacked his friend over the head for that, carefully pulling his strength so he didn't hit too hard. And then Nunnally had chided her brother, and as always that had brought Lelouch to the point of an immediate apology.


As soon as the regiment had stepped off their buses in Tokyo three days ago, they had formed up on the parade ground. The humidity had been sweltering, even in the early evening, and the heavy uniforms and the helmets complete with full face masks hadn't helped in the slightest. In that thick, sweaty heat, company by company, the regiment had been disarmed.


Each Honorary Britannian had stepped up in turn to one of the tables manned by officers from the Military Police, all under the watchful eye of their Britannian platoon and company leaders. Each soldier had surrendered the pistol and ammunition he had been issued, along with his bulletproof vest, and had made his mark in the record book next to his name and ID number, all the while trying to ignore the ominous presence of the two Knight Police Glasgows looming over the growing heap of military material.


Corporal Kururugi wondered if the other men in the ranks, silent and faceless behind their masks, had noticed how schooled their officers' expressions had been, how white their fingers were, clenched together behind their backs in otherwise perfect parade rest. How the military policemen sitting at the tables had tensed up slightly every time an Honorary reached for his pistol.


Even if the others hadn't noticed the Britannians' fear, the implicit message of the whole hours-long process hadn't been lost on them. During their time in Toyama, the men of the 1st Regiment had been given their moment in the sun. They had been issued weapons, real weapons, and sent into the field to conduct crucial missions at the request of the Prefect of Toyama himself. Now, they were being humbled.


After the shameful assembly, the men were herded back into their barracks and reintroduced to the panoply of petty slights that came with garrison life. The quality of their food plummeted, just like Corporal Kururugi had predicted, and the men had to reacclimate to old bread and beans after weeks of fresh seafood. The daily routine of endless busywork returned as well, and while mopping already clean floors had been a boring if tolerable task before Toyama, even the most stolid in the ranks were having a hard time adjusting now.


Privately, Corporal Kururugi sympathized, even as he pushed the four privates of his fire team relentlessly in every petty task that came their way. It had been easier to handle the exact nature of their assignment in Toyama while he'd still been out in the field. The action, the need to stay present and engaged, the stakes… all of that had made it easier to push the nature of his work to the back of his mind. His mantra, "all for the Plan", had been more than enough to assuage any lingering qualms.


But back in the barracks with nothing but the internal politics of the regiment to distract him, it was far more difficult to push all of those faces away, all of the pale faces staring at him from the back of a truck as he slammed the tailgate up, all the pale faces uttering imploring words he hadn't bothered to hear as he'd stuck his gun under their noses… He had hated to do it, hated himself for helping with the oppression of his people, but he'd had no choice. Not really.


It was all for the Plan, Kururugi told himself with a final bounce, before reaching up to adjust his shades. He could feel the eyes of his four subordinates; on liberty or not, he was still in charge. He couldn't forget that. Time's ticking. All for the Plan. Only through the Plan can a truly ordered society emerge. And only by giving my people the security they deserve, the peace and the quiet provided by that ordered society, will my hands ever be anything close to clean again.


"Follow," Corporal Kururugi said, and strode away from the outpost, carefully listening as first one, then two, then four sets of footsteps fell in behind him. Some of the tension in his shoulders eased. His men were still obeying his orders. That was good.


It's unfortunate, he reflected, that they only obey out of fear. Instructor Tohdoh always said that fear could only carry respect's burden for so long. Even if my father disagreed…


"Fear is power," Kururugi Genbuu had once told him in one of their rare father-son conversations. "Love is transitory, gratitude short-lived, and greed is always unmanned by fear in the kind of men who chose politics over the battlefield. They all make for useful tools, but the only way to truly lead is through fear. A leader nobody fears is no leader at all."


Maybe that's why the men were so eager to give up? Suzaku's quiet, treacherous voice asked from inside Kururugi's mind. After… After it happened, after Father died… Nobody really seemed sad to see him go… Nobody who knew him, at least…


It was, Corporal Kururugi decided as he pushed Suzaku back into his box, his men's fault that he had been forced to terrorize them into compliance. He hadn't wanted it to be this way. He had tried to teach them to respect lawful authority, doing his best to pound the regulations into their skulls. Ultimately, his men had taken away a slightly different lesson than Kururugi had intended. They'd learned that the law was important, but only so long as the law was enforced by might.


It was a very Britannian lesson and one that his four-man section had learned very well. To Kururugi's grudging pride, his men had all become adept barracks room lawyers under his tutelage as well as fearsome brawlers, equally good at leveraging obscure regulations to carry out his orders as they were with their fists and their feet. They had eagerly learned every one of Tohdoh's hand-to-hand lessons that Kururugi could recall. He would put his fire team up against any other in the entire regiment, even the brigade.


That didn't change the fact that his four privates only followed Corporal Kururugi out of fear. He had physically dominated them almost from the day of his promotion in early spring, and that physical dominance had been reinforced by his actions in Toyama. For now, that fear was enough, but it meant that Kururugi could never show weakness or vulnerability; obedience rooted in fear would only remain for as long as his men feared him.


To his frustration, Kururugi Suzaku couldn't see a way out of his situation besides doubling down. The parallels of the situation weren't lost on him; he knew that tyranny would only engender eventual resistance. But he just didn't know what else he could do. Loyalty was built on trust, and he couldn't trust his men; any one of them could be an informer, after all. He also couldn't trust them to take the long view and understand the sacrifices necessary for long-term security.


Once again, he was trapped in a situation that he hated, doing things that he hated, and turning those whom he should be protecting into his enemies.


I don't beat them because I want to, I beat them because I have to, Corporal Kururugi thought, internally glum as he tried to rationalize his behavior to himself. I just wish I could trust them to understand. It would make everything so much easier if I didn't have to drive them forwards.


But every army, he supposed, needed foot soldiers as well as leaders. His soldiers didn't really need to understand, at least not yet, as long as they obeyed for now. Corporal Kururugi was thinking in the long term, and that was all that was really necessary. He could recruit fellow travelers as he found them, men who understood as he did that if their people were ever to have anything close to safety and security, they couldn't afford to be rash or in any way lenient.


It was fine if his subordinates thought of themselves as a tiny gang, he told himself, with himself as their feared leader. He didn't care what they thought, and it was a useful fiction for now. Corporal Kururugi had big plans, and his men would help him achieve his goals one way or another.


In Toyama, Kururugi had realized that he couldn't afford to sit on his thumbs and wait patiently for the Britannians to accept him into their good graces. Corporal Kururugi could in time become Sergeant Kururugi, and perhaps eventually Sergeant Major Kururugi, but he would never rise beyond that point. Regulations or not, time in grade didn't matter so long as the men doling out the promotions refused to recognize his service and contributions.


It was just another of the many ways in which Britannia fell short of the dream it had sold to a young Kururugi Suzaku. The Plan would set it right.


The Plan was not a necessarily fixed set of steps; it was more of a set of generalized goals and realizations, which had coalesced and evolved over time. First, the Christmas Bonfires had burned away his illusions about the current leadership; the soil of Toyama had fertilized his imagination of what sort of home Britannia could provide for his people. Independence was a fool's dream, but so was the hope that his people would be safe under the current leadership.


The Honorary Britannians were the key. Hated by both the unassimilated Elevens and the Britannian lower class, they were nonetheless the only bridge between the Britannian state and Elevens, and so they would have to be the vanguard.


The Britannians, Kururugi could see, had lost their way. For all their talk of Social Darwinism and the success of the best at the expense of the rest, social mobility was stymied by class and by blood. The Britannian philosophy, as far as Kururugi saw it, made sense, but its implementation was flawed, leading to weak leaders such as Major Humphry and Prince Clovis, weak leaders who couldn't protect his people.


Which meant that his people needed to protect themselves inside Britannia. They started from a handicap, as did all Number populations, but unlike all the other subjected populations, Suzaku knew that his people still had a deep reserve of strength, and Kururugi concurred; how else would his people still be able to fight six years after the Conquest? But strength of character wasn't enough, not on its own. Left to their own devices, his people would destroy themselves.


In Toyama, Kururugi had finally managed to square the circle. His people would be safe, and the strongest and smartest would rise through strict meritocracy, rigorously following the tenets of Social Darwinism made manifest. They would overcome the barriers imposed by race and by class by becoming more Britannian than the Britannians. Kururugi would be the Emperor's most loyal servant, and an Area Eleven would become a land of security, if not of freedom, instead of a wasteland of systemic abuse and rebellion.


But to achieve that new dream, Corporal Kururugi would have to play the game by its current rules. In truth, he had already begun to play. He had earned his second chevron by giving his Britannian officer what he wanted, exchanging personal favors for promotion. He had, in effect, found his way into the game of patronage, if on a very low level.


Unfortunately, Lieutenant Rockwell and his guilty conscience couldn't elevate him any further. Indeed, the Lieutenant had seemed increasingly wary of Corporal Kururugi over the last month and had ceased confiding in him at all in Toyama. This meant that Kururugi would need to find a new patron, someone with greater reach and vision.


But how? The question had bedeviled Kururugi for the last few days.


His thoughts on the matter often turned to Lelouch. Sometimes, Kururugi wished for his childhood friend's silver tongue. For all of his devotion to the rule of law, Kururugi had ultimately been forced to resort to his fists to earn the obedience of his men and his attempts to insinuate himself into Rockwell's life had only worked as well as they had because of the Lieutenant's disgust with the Christmas Incident. Lelouch, he was sure, would have had them all pledging undying allegiance with a single conversation.


But I don't have Lelouch's guile, nor his charm, Kururugi thought, relentlessly smashing past his own thoughts of what could have been. So I'm going to have to do things my own way. And if I can't find a patron for now, I'll handle the other matter. I can't let myself stagnate.


He'd scoured his mind for memories of Britannia, trying to remember what he'd seen in the Britannian commoners who had risen through the ranks unsupported by noble connections or wealthy families. He recalled anecdotes his own father had shared with him, as well as the things he'd said to Tohdoh and the others when he was in his cups. How to exhibit leadership potential, how to project authority and strength irrespective of the truth.


A true leader takes the initiative, Kururugi thought. He doesn't just wait for an opportunity to knock, he seizes his own fortune with both hands.


I need to make my own luck. He thought back to the murmurs he'd heard of Honoraries taking handouts, of his own people heaping shame upon the rest of them just to fill their own bellies. He remembered the sneers on the faces of the Britannians as they joked about how "a beggar once is a beggar always," and how they'd pointedly looked at him. And I know just how to do it.


It would hurt, and they would hate him for it, but it needed to be done. Not only for the Plan, but for their own good. Sometimes doing the right thing was hard. That didn't make it any less right.


After all, it's like my father always said. "Spare the rod, spoil the child."


"Alright, listen up," Kururugi said, voice cold and steady as he slowed, allowing his men to group up as they continued down the road. "It's time to get to work. We are soldiers of Britannia and the enforcers of her will. We are Honorary Britannians, not filthy Numbers. Unfortunately, not everybody remembers the oath they swore. We're going to help remind them of their pride, and their duty, as sworn citizens of Britannia."


"Sure thing, Corp," one of his men, John, or as he was once known, Senku, replied. "We're always down to provide some legal education."


The other three men snickered, and Kururugi feigned a smile. He knew exactly what they meant – they'd cornered a particularly weedy private from 3rd Company a few nights back when he'd foolishly chosen to use 2nd Company's showers. They'd provided enough education on the proper assignment of facilities per His Imperial Majesty's Military Code that the man had trouble walking the next day.


Without warning, Corporal Kururugi turned on his heel and buried his fist into John's stomach, sending the man doubling over, gasping for breath. "It's Corporal, John," Kururugi reprimanded, "not Corp. You must always address a superior with the rank and respect they are due."


Camaraderie is already impossible, Kururugi thought, and I do not need sycophants. These men are tools until proven otherwise, and I will not hesitate to remind them of their purpose.


"Y-you got it, Corporal," John wheezed, walking on as best as he could as he fought to catch his breath. Kururugi slowed just a bit – he didn't want to have to repeat himself for John once the man caught back up.


"Anyway," Kururugi continued, forcing himself to play the part his Plan demanded, "it's come to my attention that many of our people have started taking food handouts, lowering themselves back into the same category as the Numbers who rely on Prince Clovis's generosity to remain alive. This is unacceptable. As Honorary Britannians, we can never let the Britannians think of us as Numbers. The moment they do, we lose everything we've fought for."


"So… What are we going to do?" One of the other men asked, flinching slightly as Kururugi smiled back at him.


"Provide legal education," Kururugi quipped with a tight smile. "After all, I don't think that a charity handing out food is likely to bother with all of that paperwork, do you? I bet they haven't filed an assembly permit or bought a distribution license! Even if they did, whoever's driving the truck probably won't have them on hand to show a group of concerned citizens, now will they?"


"Probably not," John agreed, still rubbing at his abdomen, "But… Not to disagree with your plan, Corporal, but there are only five of us, and none of us have guns. We could definitely take any five random hungry civilians, or even any ten, but are we really going to take on a whole mob by ourselves?"


"Yes," Corporal Kururugi immediately replied. "Yes, we are. They are undisciplined and weak, otherwise they wouldn't be taking charity and risking their status. But we'll be stopping to pick up some… Oh, let's just call them some educational implements first. Legal ones, of course."


The purchase was legal. Corporal Kururugi had even insisted on a receipt at the sporting goods store. The pimply clerk behind the counter had been a bit nervous about the five Honorary Britannians buying baseball bats and fixed-blade camping knives, but he had been reassured by Kururugi's military ID and the implication that the small group was on a quietly deniable mission. He'd even wished Kururugi a nice night as he'd handed over the receipt.


It hadn't taken long to find the offensive soup kitchen once they'd left the sporting goods store, bats in hand. Some helpful soul had stapled flyers to utility poles throughout the Honorary Britannian neighborhoods surrounding the walled Shinjuku Ghetto. To Kururugi's surprise, at least one of the arcologies housing the poorer Britannians in the Settlement had likewise been carpeted by the flyers; at least one hung on every street, all with the same address and time.


When his little band arrived at the small pocket park, Kururugi was surprised and disappointed to see that the small greenspace was absolutely thronged with people, some still in line but most sitting on the grass or a curb, eating a spicy-scented soup from cheap ceramic bowls. To his mild consternation, at least a few Britannians were sitting in the dirt with his fellow Honoraries. True, these Britannians looked even more ragged than some of the Honoraries, but it was still astonishing.


"Times really must be getting hard," Kururugi heard John muttering to one of the other soldiers as they pushed their way through the densely crowded park. A few people turned to protest the sudden shoves, but most cringed back when they saw the five out-of-uniform soldiers. A few glared, but glaring impotently at their betters was all they could do.


Just like with the Britannians, over these six long years, Kururugi thought. I know what that's like, swallowing your pride to survive. I will have to teach them to stand up and fight for their rights. If you don't fight, nobody will ever respect you; if the Honoraries don't fight, my project is doomed to failure.


I know they can fight, Suzaku thought, loud inside his mind. My people are still strong. We're still strong! The problem isn't that they can't fight, it's that they don't have the weapons, the leadership, or the organization!


All of which I can provide, given time, Kururugi thought, shoving his way past a family. It just takes discipline, patience, resilience, and a refusal to give in and give up. These people should know better! They made the sacrifice to become Honorary Britannians, and now they're just licking up free food? It's just another drug, another weakness. I've beaten the weakness out of my fire team, and I'll beat it out of the rest of the Honorary Britannians if I must!


I wonder if Father would be proud of us? Suzaku thought, his tone mournful and bitter. We're turning out just like him, aren't we?


Kururugi Genbuu was a fool, just like how these people are fools, replied Kururugi, forcing Suzaku out of the way. I will not make his mistakes. I am Kururugi Suzaku, not Kururugi Genbuu, and I will save my people even if they curse me for the next thousand years!


With that thought still ringing in his mind, Corporal Kururugi finally broke through the packed crowd in front of the serving line itself, flanked by his fire team. He found himself in an open space centered on a line of portable tables creaking under the weight of portable stoves and heavy tureens and pots full of piping hot soup, a truck parked off to one side.


Kururugi looked over the line of servers behind the pots with cold eyes as they took notice of his arrival; judging by their tattered clothes, they were Elevens, all of them. His people, but those who hadn't seen the wisdom of embracing Britannian strength. Surprisingly, none of the servers looked down or away, and each met his gaze without flinching.


Idiots, the lot of them, Kururugi thought, internally shaking his head in dismay. It's this same stupid pride that led to all the violence in Niigata. If they just… just knew their place and were patient, none of this would happen! I wouldn't have needed to go to Toyama, and I wouldn't need to be here tonight. They keep forcing me to do horrible things, and I hate it!


"Who are you," a strident female voice demanded in heavily accented Britannian from somewhere to Kururugi's right, "and why are you trying to skip the line?"


Thankful for the distraction from his turbulent thoughts, Kururugi turned and sized up the talkative Eleven. She was tall for a woman, almost his height, and her face and clothes were clean and well-maintained. Indeed, if it wasn't for the hachimaki holding her long, indigo hair out of her face, he would have mistaken her for an Honorary Britannian.


"Corporal Kururugi, of His Majesty's 32nd Honorary Legion, 1st Brigade, 1st Regiment, 2nd Company," he said, identifying himself in the same language as his men spread out behind him. "And who are you?"


"Naomi," came the curt reply, "of the Rising Sun Benevolent Association. You're free to join us for supper Corporal…" Naomi's voice faltered for a moment, and Kururugi grimaced. She'd clearly just recognized his name. "...But you need to get in line with the rest."


"Ah, so you're the one in charge here?" She clearly was, as the only one speaking up, but Kururugi was only really asking as a formality anyway. "I'm surprised to see an Eleven outside of the Ghetto, handing out food to Honorary Britannians. Surely looking after your own people should be your priority?"


"My own people?" Naomi raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Corporal. All who want help are welcome under the rays of the Rising Sun, and unfortunately, many of your people are still recovering from the Incident at the beginning of the year."


"You know exactly what I mean," Kururugi ground out, already tired of this game. This damned stubborn pride, just like in Toyama. Just like Father. "Your people are the ones who rely on Prince Clovis's generosity for your food. If you somehow scraped together enough to buy extra, you should enjoy it in the Ghetto, where you belong. We who have taken the oath don't need your handouts; we're not stuck in the past, choking on our pride like you."


"Choking on our pride?" the woman replied incredulously, "We're the ones choking on our pride? Corporal, you get fed by the Army – do you have any idea how much the price of food has gone up over the last year? Do you think that all of these people are queuing up for soup for fun?"


"Life is hard. Life has always been hard." Kururugi began to stalk across the tarmac toward the Eleven. "And if good Honoraries continue to take the easy way out that you're providing them, it will never be anything but hard. The only way the lot of Honorary Britannians will improve is by demonstrating our strength; squatting in parks with free soup is what your kind do, and as long as we accept handouts from you, the Britannians will never see us as equals."


"See you as equals?" The woman had the gall to laugh. "They will never see you as their equal, Corporal. You could be a general and they'll still only see your Eleven face and your Eleven name. You will never be anything but a dog to them, and the moment you bark too loud, they'll put you down."


"Enough," Kururugi growled, bat in hand. I wish I still had my pistol. Sports equipment just isn't threatening enough to scare people into listening to me. If the officers trusted us more, we'd be able to do a far better job carrying out these missions, and things would be better for everybody, Britannian, Honorary, and Eleven alike.


"As a citizen of Area Eleven and a soldier in His Majesty's Armed Forces, I demand to see your food distribution permit, your assembly permit, proof of rental for the park, your access permit to the Settlement, and all other relevant paperwork." As he continued down his list, Kururugi began walking towards the Eleven leader.


"Did you think you had the right to be here, Number?" He felt angry eyes on his back and a snarl twisting its way across his face. Do they think I want to be here? Do they think I want to do this? "You should've stayed home in Shinjuku! Just take the damned oath if you want to get out of the gutter and back on your feet!"


Around him, the crowd muttered with discontent, but nobody, not the Eleven servers nor the mass of onlooking Honorary Britannians, stepped forward to intervene. Naomi hadn't budged, and stood, back straight and hands by her sides, staring directly at him. She showed no signs of movement.


"Well," Kururugi prompted, stopping a few feet away from the bitch with the familiar red circle sun on her brow, the same one that had once graced the flag that had hung behind his father's chair, back in his sumptuous office. The same flag Father had stood in front of when he'd issued that order to resist to the last, as well as that other order. "Where are your papers, Number?"


"You're looking for our papers?" A new voice broke in on the encounter from somewhere off to Corporal Kururugi's left. Carefully, not taking his eyes off Naomi, he took a half step back and to the side, trying to turn his head just far enough to see where the voice was coming from without taking his eyes off the troublemaker. "I have them here. I think you'll find everything is in order, Sergeant."


"It's Corporal," Kururugi replied in a growl, eyes scanning for where the voice was coming from. "If you've got something to show me, come here and give it to me."


From his side, John let out a muffled gasp, followed immediately by an equally quiet "Oh, fuck." With a curse of his own between his teeth, Kururugi took another step away from the potential troublemaker, putting distance between them in case she tried to rush him when his back was turned, and followed John's gaze out into the crowd.


Stepping out from behind the parked truck was a Britannian woman, a girl about Kururugi's own age. That would have been bad enough – a Number-loving Britannian would have required careful handling, after all – but as soon as Kururugi laid eyes upon her, it was hard to resist following in John's steps and cursing their luck.


The Britannian was obviously a noble. Kururugi could practically smell the stink of aristocracy rolling off of her from across the park's parking lot turned handout station. While she was wearing an unremarkable outfit of slacks, a man's button-up shirt, and a vest, even Kururugi could tell the garments were high quality and likely obscenely expensive. Even more tellingly, Kururugi couldn't remember the last time he'd seen someone move with such implicit arrogance.


He hadn't seen anybody act like that since Lelouch first arrived in Japan, eight long years ago.


Worst yet, the woman… No, the lady was absolutely, stunningly beautiful. Kururugi couldn't believe how quickly his luck had curdled. A Number-loving stunner of a noble was perhaps the greatest complicating factor for this entirely unsanctioned and self-assigned mission, second only to Lelouch suddenly putting in an appearance. He had no possible leverage over the lady, nor could he possibly intimidate her. Even attempting to do so would be extremely dangerous.


"Ma'am," Kururugi said in his most respectful tones, slowly lowering the baseball bat as she approached, "begging your pardon. Are you the one responsible for this… Charitable operation?"


"No," the lady replied, "that would be Rivalz. Rivalz Cardemonde, of the Gold Coast Cardemondes?" She gestured, and Kururugi suddenly realized that there were, in fact, two nobles in attendance, the male… the young lord dressed in a very high-class school uniform. "He is, in fact, the chairman of the board for the Benevolent Association. It operates under his charter."


"I see…" Kururugi slowly replied, trying to establish his options. Suddenly, they were all various shades of distasteful and counter-productive.


Dammit! If I don't play my cards right, I could endanger the whole Plan! I shouldn't have been so cocky, but how could I have predicted this? Britannian nobles setting up some kind of charity to help honoraries? Impossible!


Kururugi forced himself to take a breath and focus. That's all irrelevant. Right now, I need to find a way out. Fortunately, all of my actions up until now have been within the law.


"Well," Kururugi turned to the noble in the uniform, "in that case, my lord, would you mind if I checked the permitting for this distribution? I'm sure you filed all the correct documents, sir, but it would help set my mind at ease if I knew that everything here was in accordance with the law."


"Well," the lord, Rivalz, glanced over at his companion for a moment, "I guess-"


"It's the most curious thing, Corporal," the young lady interjected, seemingly ignoring Cardemonde entirely. Her gawky companion's half-open mouth snapped shut as he turned to her in surprised deference.


Behind his shades, Kururugi's eyes narrowed. And she says he's in charge?


"I notice you're not in uniform. And you said you're a soldier in His Majesty's Armed Forces? The 32nd Legion, I believe?" the lady continued, the predatory gleam in her eye growing brighter with every word. "Now, I'm just a student at Ashford Academy, so correct me if I'm wrong, but unless the Viceregal-Governor has declared martial law again, you don't have any law enforcement duties over civilians, now do you?."


"That's…" Kururugi gritted his teeth. "That's true… But, begging your pardon, my lady, my men and I have just returned from counter-insurgency operations in Toyama. Seeing Numbers set up in a Settlement is making me a bit jumpy; after all, who knows if they're rebels or sympathizers? I'm sure nobody employed by you would be, but I'd just like to make sure."


"Oh?" the lady arched an imperious brow. "And is there any reason I should indulge this…whim of yours?"


Kururugi bit his cheek so hard he could taste blood. "...No… my lady. There is not."


For a moment, they stood there in tableau, the lady looming over him for all that she was half a head shorter and Kururugi trying to ignore the sweat trickling down his back. He was a soldier, hardened by combat, and a proud Honorary Britannian who'd carried out the Empire's will with dedication and energy, but that had all been for the Plan. A Plan that was rapidly unraveling at the first hurdle. He could feel the situation sliding away from him, away from control.


It was all for the Plan! Kururugi thought, mind frantic. I can't have it all mean nothing! Not now!


But there was nothing he could do. Not with the lady standing before him, radiating purebred noble power and a supremely arrogant confidence as her stunning sapphire eyes roamed him up and down. He felt like an irritant, an insect, helpless before that cool gaze.


Finally, the spell broke as the lady rolled her beautiful cerulean eyes. "...I suppose I've wasted enough time with this foolishness." She said, stepping forward and pulling a folder from the satchel hanging at her side. "Here you go, Corporal. I can save you a look if you'd like. Naomi over here filed all the paperwork herself, and she's an expert at it."


To Kururugi's astonished rage, the redheaded noble casually slung a friendly arm over the Number's shoulders.


Why am I so angry about this? Suzaku thought, his internal voice cool and considering while surrounded by a maelstrom of emotion. I should be happy that some Britannian other than Lelouch actually sees us as people. They… They look like they're friends.


Why am I so angry about this? Kururugi wondered. It's what I want. Recognition of our skills and our worth, to work hand in hand with the Britannians for the betterment of both our peoples.


What am I even doing here?


Desperate for distraction from his treacherous thoughts, Kururugi accepted the folder and flipped it open. Just as promised, a thick sheaf of very official paperwork greeted his eyes. Gloomily, Kururugi pawed through the first several layers. He didn't really know what he was looking for; he hadn't anticipated the damned Numbers to actually have a signed and stamped assembly permit on hand. After a brief show of paging through the folder, he returned it to the lady.


"Everything seems to be in order, my lady," Kururugi replied through a grimacing smile. "Thank you very much for your help setting my mind at ease. I greatly appreciate it."


"Oh, don't thank me," the lady demurred. "Thank Naomi instead; after all, she's the one who handled the paperwork." A beat passed, and the lady's eyes narrowed just a touch. "Do it, Corporal. Thank her for helping you protect us."


I could kill her, Kururugi mused. In less than a second, I could drive my bat into her sternum, right between her breasts. She'd bend forwards, and I'd drive the butt down into her head. The knife at my belt would slash the Eleven's throat open. It would be easy.


…But…


He could see the look in her eye, even as she smiled. The way her body tensed just so, the way her lips twitched up as she met his furious gaze… It all seemed to taunt him. He could almost hear her arrogant voice in his ear, saying "Just give me a reason."


…That's exactly what she wants, isn't it?


Besides, It was, he knew, a fantasy, a way of coping with the apex predator whose shadow had just passed over him. Perhaps if the world was different, if life was different… But it was not different. In this world, Kururugi had no recourse, no way to fight back against a Britannian noble without effectively cutting his own throat. At least, not yet…


Someday, Kururugi promised himself, someday. Discipline, patience, and sacrifice. All for the Plan.


He carefully did not think about the thrill of fear deep inside at the prospect of defying the Britannians. Of what happened to those who defied the Britannians. He certainly didn't think about the way his heart leapt at the thought of that fate.


Of finally being punished, broken on the wheel. Justice at last, not for this act of defiance, but another…


"Thank you, Miss Naomi," the words were like sand mixed with ashes in his mouth, gritty and abrasive and choking, "I commend your bureaucratic skills. Crossing every T and dotting every I. You are a credit to your mistress."


"You're most welcome, Corporal Kururugi," the Eleven purred. Kururugi's eyes widened – she'd said that in Japanese! A language that Honorary Britannians were forbidden by law to use! She'd spoken in Japanese in front of a noble! "It's so good to see that Japan's sons continue to watch over her people."


Teeth clenched, Kururugi turned on his heel and strode away, back the way he had come. After a moment, four sets of footsteps fell in dutifully behind him. To Kururugi's finely tuned senses, that moment rang loudly in the quiet air of the park. His team's confidence in his strength had been shaken by this miniature fiasco. They'd seen him weak and helpless, caught in a cerulean ocean and barely able to swim. There would be consequences if he didn't move quickly.


"Back to the barracks," he commanded after they'd put a block between themselves and the park, "and when we get there, get changed into your training gear. Liberty or not, we have plenty to do before we get sent back out into the field. Clear?"


Kururugi paused. When nobody responded immediately, he turned and snarled at his four fellow Honoraries. "Did I fucking stutter? Are we clear?"


That got a round of "Yes, Corporal!" from all present, but Kururugi wasn't fooled. Obedience rooted in fear only lasted as long as strength persisted; it was clear that his fire team needed a reminder of just how much strength Tohdoh Kyoshiro's prize student could still bring to bear.


---------


As the small knot of out-of-uniform Britannian soldiers wandered away, Kallen slowly let out a tense breath. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Yoshi pick up a ladle with his left hand, which moments before had been creeping behind his back to the pistol she knew was hidden underneath his dirty white shirt. Next to her, Inoue sagged slightly, wavering slightly on her feet as the last of the bat-toting thugs left the park.


"Has… Has that happened before?" Rivalz piped up, speaking quickly and nervously from behind her.


Kallen straightened back up and stepped away from Inoue, patting the other woman on the shoulder as she turned to Rivalz. She was proud to see that, although her classmate was obviously nervous, his hands were steady, not shaking in the slightest.


He's come a long way since Christmas, Kallen thought, remembering a much younger Rivalz, vomit streaked down the front of his uniform and his hands full of glass. He's grown.


"I mean," Rivalz continued, eyes still wary as he darted a look back at the entrance to the park, "I think this is the fifth or sixth time I've come out to help, but… Is this new, or have I just been lucky?"


"This is new," the Stadtfeld heiress reassured her friend, and when had that happened? "Sometimes someone from the Knight Police loiters nearby, and sometimes we get the odd drunk yelling at us from the street, but I think this is the first time we've been hassled by a gang." She forced a laugh. '"Not really much to steal here, is there? Just soup."


"Eh?" Rivalz turned away from the entrance to shoot her an incredulous glance. "You think they were actually a gang? The tall one claimed to be a soldier, right? Corporal Kururu or whatever?" You think that was just a lie or something?"


"I didn't see any uniforms or ID," Kallen shrugged, "so yeah, I'd say a gang. Doesn't really matter if they have day jobs when they're wandering around looking for trouble. I don't think that the Army's quite at the point of issuing baseball bats to its men."


"You've got a point," Rivalz said with a brief chuckle before rapidly sobering back up. "Do you think that they were, uhh…" He looked side to side at the milling crowd that had once again begun to line up for free soup before leaning in and whispering "do you think they were some of the guys who were smashing stuff up and, umm… hurting people around Christmas?"


"No," Kallen replied, shaking her head. "No, if anything, I think that they might've come from the same unit as the soldier we… found. The 32nd Honorary Legion. I think those were probably some of his comrades."


"Oh." Rivalz looked mildly ill at the reminder, his lips pressed together and practically white from the pressure. "Then… I'm not getting something. Why were they here messing with us when we're trying to help people? Why was that Kururu guy so deferential to a pair of Brits like us, if we… You know…"


"I don't know," Kallen said, half truthfully. "I'm sure it makes some kind of sense to them. Look," she said, casting about for something else to talk about, "can you run this folder back to the truck? And let Nagata know that it's probably time to start packing up."


Rivalz nodded and turned to head off.


"Oh, and Rivalz?" The student paused and turned back to Kallen. "Thanks for the backup there. You really helped keep things from getting nasty. You did good."


"Anytime, Kallen!" Rivalz flashed his increasingly rare puppy-dog smile at her. She smiled back, her expression just a bit brittle. "It feels good to be able to help out the Cause, just a bit!"


As her fellow student jogged away, Kallen let herself feel guilty about her newest deceptions for a moment, before shoving the useless emotion away. Rivalz was a friend, but he was an agent as well, even if he didn't know it. And agents were tools, to be used and sacrificed to achieve objectives. Rivalz had played his role as a living smokescreen to perfection, defusing a potentially sticky situation without blood or fuss in the process.


Truthfully, "a sticky situation" didn't even begin to cover how complicated things could have been, had matters come to blows. For one thing, while Rivalz hadn't understood the importance of the Kururugi name, Kallen had recognized the name of the Republic's last prime minister. She couldn't even begin to fathom how the son of one of Japan's leading families, one that descended from a cadet branch of the Imperial House, no less, had ended up in uniform.


Exchanging a significant look with Inoue, a silent promise that we'll talk about this later, Kallen set to work with a will, slinging soup, scrubbing endless bowls, and hauling heavy sacks of garbage for the next half hour as the stream of hungry mouths gradually slowed to a stop.


A productive night, Kallen thought with satisfaction. I bet we managed to feed at least eight hundred people, maybe even nine! Pity it'll be the last one for a while…


That particular decision had come down from the leadership earlier that day. Her brother had announced their decision that morning, that, in order to guarantee food supplies inside Shinjuku, the food relief program for the Honorary Britannians would effectively be brought to an end. Tonight's distribution had already been scheduled and had supplies set aside for it, so was allowed to proceed, but it would be the last for the foreseeable future.


Kallen didn't know how she'd break the news to Rivalz. He really enjoyed participating, and while he didn't spend much time scrubbing pots and pans, everybody who came seemed to relish the chance to talk to a real Britannian noble, especially one who truly was friendly to the core.


Interestingly, from what Kallen had picked up from Tanya's call earlier that day passing on Naoto's decision, the end to the Honorary distributions hadn't been part of the leadership's plan. If Tanya was to be believed, for the first time in its short history the Council of Local Notables, as the political body Naoto had cobbled together had named themselves, had prevailed upon the leadership.


The collection of local headmen and power brokers had claimed to be the representatives of the people of Shinjuku, and as a sort of miniature Diet, had all but demanded the end to food donations for those outside the walls. The leadership had opted to concede the point.


"It will give us a chance to stockpile foodstuffs," Tanya had said over the phone, clearly trying to rationalize the loss into some kind of victory, "and it will display our commitment to the needs of the people. We can't rule by force and terror alone, Kallen. We'd just become another gang, and gangs are inherently unstable. Only through the consent of the governed and popular support can we hope to maintain control over Shinjuku."


Kallen had made all the appropriate noises, playing her role as confidant to the hilt. Privately, she had her doubts. While Tanya sounded like she knew what she was talking about, Kallen thought she was overemphasizing the say this "Council" should have. After all, Rising Sun had all the guns, food, and money. What did they need from the Council?


Then again, maybe that's just the Britannian in me, Kallen thought with a shiver of disgust. It had been far, far too easy to get into her character as a Britannian heiress, a role she only played infrequently, even at Ashford. The last time she'd played it was… probably when she'd stood with Rivalz under a hanged man. It's weird how just playing that role kinda has a hangover… It's easy to think like a Britannian. It's hard to think in Japanese.


As Kallen made her way back from the dumpsters, another load of trash deposited in the hulking steel beast, her thoughts lingered on the Honorary Britannian soldiers who had come by earlier. She had told Rivalz that she didn't understand why they had come, or what they'd hoped to gain, but that had been half a lie. Every time after sinking too deeply into Lady Kallen Stadtfeld, she felt an almost overwhelming need to prove that she truly was Kozuki Kallen.


She imagined that Corporal Kururugi Suzaku, saddled with a cursed name, would be willing to do a great deal if it meant becoming someone else. After all, she'd been willing to follow her Big Brother into danger over and over before Tanya had interceded – what would she have done if she was trying to gain acceptance from someone who actively hated her?


A quiet cough startled Kallen out of her uncomfortable self-reflection. "Oh, excuse me," she blurted out instinctively. Too late she realized she'd spoken in Japanese, and that the young man she'd almost run into was Britannian.


"Don't worry about it," the young man replied in the same language, although spoken with a slight Homeland accent, "you just looked a bit lost in your thoughts, and I wanted to know if you were alright."


"Ah, well, I'm fine," Kallen smiled uneasily at the Britannian. He looked vaguely familiar… It was something about the jawline, but the blond hair and green eyes didn't quite ring any bells. "Thanks for asking, though."


"It's my pleasure," the blond smiled, a simple heartwarming expression that somehow radiated a sincere joy in her company. "That was quite the alarming situation earlier, wasn't it? I swear, the whole Area's going to the dogs, when random gangs can just terrorize anybody they want."


"Interesting times, huh?" Kallen smiled back at the man. He was, she guessed, about her age. Maybe a year older. Judging by his clothes, he was definitely at least middle class, and maybe on the lower end of the rich. Perhaps he came from a wealthy commoner family, or maybe from a cadet house a bit down on their luck.


"You can say that again," the man chortled to himself. "Interesting times indeed. An event that nobody is allowed to talk about, a housing crisis, an uprising in the mountains, and now a food crunch, all in less than five months. And now, our esteemed Viceregal-Governor is just dumping a ton of free money out in an attempt to convince us that everything is fine and well in hand." The smile turned roguish. "Makes you wonder what'll happen in a month's time, eh, Lady Stadtfeld?"


"You're… Quite well informed," Kallen replied, suddenly feeling very much on the back foot. How does he know my name? I've never met him before. Maybe Rivalz brought another student along? He did bring that friend of his back in March… "And yeah, I'm umm… Not too certain about how well the 'give everyone five hundred pounds' plan is going to work out."


As the man nodded thoughtfully, Kallen frantically groped for more details from the news article she'd skimmed a few days back before throwing the copy of the Messenger into the trash where it belonged. "I'm looking forward to the new holiday on the 4th, though! 'Vi Britannia Day', huh?"


"Ah yes," for some reason, the man's smile tightened across his face, almost to the point where Kallen would call it a rictus. "It's… a wonderful idea. I'm not really sure how well it will catch on. Not like many people know about a dead pair of royals, nor care. Neither exactly stood to inherit anything."


"I'll be honest, I'd forgotten they even existed," Kallen agreed with a nod, "but if they get me a day off from school, well… I'll happily pour one out for little Lelouch and, umm… I don't remember the Princess's name."


"Nunnally…" The man said, helping her out. "Her name… her name was Nunnally."


"Ah, that's right, Nunnally vi Britannia!" Kallen said cheerfully, keeping her curiosity carefully concealed. Something about the way the man had said that name was odd; the first time he'd said the long-dead girl's name, it had practically throbbed with emotion. The repetition had still carried a strange inflection. "Well, I'll pour out some juice to her memory as well."


"What do you think of the Viceregal-Governor, Lady Stadtfeld?" The question was as abrupt as it was overt, but somehow all Kallen could read from the man's tone was genuine curiosity, as if they were sitting in some salon, discussing political minutia over fresh coffee. "Do you have much of an opinion about the man?"


The question itself was alarming, but somehow the utter artlessness of the delivery made the young man seem earnest instead of pushy. Kallen hesitantly put him into the mental box of "budding student radicals and freethinkers." Generally harmless, but probably useless.


There were some students at Ashford who prided themselves on being "freethinkers", and who made a big display of "asking questions" about the official line. Their "questions" particularly focused on the propaganda masquerading as history class. While it was interesting to listen to them interrupt class to point out the poorly concealed contradictions in the textbook, Kallen had no time for them.


For all that the limited number of milquetoast student radicals were "only asking questions", doing so out in the open could draw official attention to themselves, and to her via proximity. Attention she desperately wanted to avoid. Even more importantly, she sincerely doubted their teenage rebelliousness would ever push them over the brink from "asking questions" into actual activity against the imperial apparatus, making them weak allies at best and more likely active hindrances to her own activities.


Still… This one actually showed up. We're not exactly at Ashford right now, are we?


"Prince Clovis?" Kallen asked aloud with a friendly smile, "Well… he's quite the artist. I mean, I'm not really one for the arts and stuff, but I saw a piece of his on a class trip to the Museum of Art, and it looked pretty decent. How about you, Mister…?"


"Spicer," the man stuck out his hand, and Kallen gave it a brisk shake. "Alan Spicer. I've seen you at lunch a few times. You usually eat in the main courtyard, right?"


"Oh, that explains it!" Kallen exclaimed a tad theatrically as she let out an internal sigh of relief. "I thought I knew you from somewhere, but I couldn't quite put a name to your face. Yes, I do like the courtyard; the garden is lovely, and it's nice to get some fresh air between classes. Did Rivalz invite you along?"


"In a manner of speaking," Alan replied, releasing her hand. "He was wandering around telling everybody about what a fun extracurricular he'd found. I was curious and didn't have anything to do tonight, so I decided to give it a try."


"Well, thank you for coming out to help," Kallen said with a smile. "There's always room for more hands, or…" The smile slipped. "Well, I'd normally say that, but unfortunately it looks like this will be the last soup dinner the Benevolent Association will be serving for a while. I guess it's a good thing you didn't wait until next week to come."


"Really? But, why?" Alan's face artfully crumpled into a frown, lines of consternation and worry radiating across his face. The expression reminded Kallen of a barrister from one of the legal dramas her stepmother loved to watch in the Stadtfeld Manor's home theater. It was, she realized, an obviously practiced expression of concern.


"You served so many people tonight alone," Alan continued, tilting his head in a gesture that somehow conveyed a profound lack of understanding coupled with a sincere desire to learn, "and as your friend mentioned earlier, the price of food is only going up. Surely there's more need now than ever before?"


"Well, yeah," Kallen acknowledged, "but that's the problem. The Rising Sun Benevolent Association relies solely on donations from local businesses and philanthropic nobles, and if you hadn't noticed, the first aren't doing well at the moment and the other is in short supply. Since we help take care of the people who were affected by the event that, as you said, we can't mention, we can't exactly go to the Area Administration for help."


"That certainly is quite the pickle," Spicer nodded, "and yet, are you really okay with just leaving people to fend for themselves?"


"No, I'm not, but…" Kallen trailed off, trying to figure out how to convey her feelings without slipping out of the mask of Britannian nobility.


"I'm not happy about it in the slightest," she said, quickly throwing together a plausible lie, "especially not as a noble. Someone close to me once told me that loyalty is a two-way street; all of these people swore themselves to Britannia, shaking off their old lives in the hope of something better. How can we expect them to remain loyal without helping them? But I simply don't have the resources to make an impact by myself."


For a moment, Kallen thought she saw something flicker in the young man's eyes, something that said it understood her.


"I get it," Alan commiserated, "I really do. If you don't mind me saying it, it sounds like everything you're doing should be managed by the Administration. I think you're doing them an enormous favor by picking up their slack." The radiant smile returned. "I really respect what you're trying to do here, Lady Stadtfeld. It's very impressive. It's not exactly common to hear a noble talk about loyalty to those below us."


Dammit, Kallen! You did it again! You opened your mouth and let your brain fall out! Talking to a Britannian about obligations to the Honoraries? Tanya would be appalled. This kind of thing is why Diethard paid attention to you to begin with!


"It's just common sense," Kallen replied hotly, trying to defend herself. "Have you ever felt like working hard and doing your best for someone who just hits you all the time? I sure haven't! The people that really make me give my best are the ones who make me feel valued and important! And the Honoraries aren't stupid, and it's not like they don't remember what happened earlier!"


"Hey, no need to worry," Alan broke in, hands raised in a pacifying gesture, "I told you, I get it. Not going too deep into my own baggage, but the Honoraries are far from the only people to suffer at the hands of abusive and neglectful leaders, men who should care for those who depend upon them."


"Oh…" Kallen suddenly felt foolish. She'd completely misread Alan's smile. It hadn't been mocking in the slightest. She had been so wrapped up in herself she'd missed something personal. She felt embarrassed and foolish and, once again, very Britannian. "Well, good," she continued lamely, "I'm glad we agree."


"You know," Alan said, his tone considering, "I'd actually kind of wondered if you were some sort of employee of Prince Clovis when I came here tonight." He paused and hurriedly continued. "I mean, I had wondered if the Viceroy was trying to get around any sort of official pushback from the Purists by supporting your charity. It would have been a clever way to mitigate Honorary grievances without being seen to oppose a powerful political faction!"


Realizing that her fists were clenched and her teeth gritted with anger, Kallen forced herself to relax. "That would have been a very clever idea on the Prince's part," she agreed with a laugh, "but I'm afraid that's not the case. We'd welcome some official backup, but, as far as I know, nobody in the Rising Sun is drawing an official salary."


And if they are, Kallen thought, I'm sure Naoto will deal with them just as soon as that little fact comes to light.


"That's a real shame," Alan commiserated, shaking his head. "Honestly, I really hope the Prince somehow sees what you and your people are doing. You've helped him out of a hole that, if I'm being honest, he dug for himself. Hopefully someone in the Administration will see the worth of your organization and throw some of the budget from the Clovisland 2 project your way!"


"Hopefully," Kallen agreed, "but I'm not holding my breath. Anyway, I need to get back to help Inoue sort out the rest of the clean-up. Thank you again for coming by and helping us. I guess I'll look forward to seeing you at Ashford?"


"I'll certainly be looking forward to our next meeting, Lady Stadtfeld," Alan smiled, "perhaps we should do lunch sometime? Anyway, until next time."


"Until next time," Kallen said, smiling half in farewell and half in relief that the strange conversation had come to an end. It had been, she decided, a productive exchange, and she'd definitely never spoken to a Britannian in Japanese for half this long before.


To her surprise, instead of a parting wave, Alan bowed to her from the waist, hands folded in front of him in a formal farewell. Instinctively, she bobbed forwards, catching herself halfway down and converting the motion into an abbreviated curtsey. Alan didn't smirk or laugh at her slip-up, instead only tilting his head before turning on his heel and vanishing into the darkened park.


Alan Spicer, huh? Kallen shook her head and resumed her trek back to the waiting Rising Sun truck. Britannian nobles with actual brains inside their heads are pretty rare. He seemed a bit too happy with the Administration, but he was also sympathetic… Maybe he could be another Rivalz? Man, with three people on board, we'd practically have a cell of our own at Ashford!


The thought startled a giggle out of Kallen, who promptly slapped a hand to her mouth and looked around to see if anybody had noticed the slip-up. No way. That'd just be crazy. Who the hell would think of trying to set up a radical cell in the middle of a school for the upper crust? If I floated the idea with Tanya, she'd definitely think I was joking!


---------


Two miles and thirty minutes away from the park, Alan Spicer ceased to exist once again.


At least this time I'm not running from the police, Lelouch thought as he scrubbed the wig adhesive out of his hair. It's far easier to put myself back together with the aid of a mirror and sink. Less trash as well.


The cheap hotel room was comfortingly anonymous. Gray-green walls, beige carpeting, and furniture that had unquestionably been purchased in bulk. Just one anonymous room in a practically endless sea of identical copies. It was absolutely common in a way that Lelouch had only rarely experienced in his life.


In his youth, the ostentatious splendor of the Imperial Palace in the heart of Pendragon had seemed unremarkable; familiarity with the endless masterpieces and architectural wonders had bred contempt. The spartan Kururugi Temple, at first startlingly foreign, had likewise grown mundane over time. Ashford Academy was, for all of Milly and Reuban's pretensions, just a little slice of the land that would never again be Home, and it carried the shadow of all the vainglorious trappings of his childhood.


His life had all been a sea of luxury, a succession of palaces and estates and stately manors. All of his life, that is, except for the single two-month period of the Conquest and its immediate aftermath, before the Ashfords had arrived with the first wave of Britannian settlers. Lelouch had been far too focused on Nunnally's dwindling weight and his own shaking limbs to care about the burnt-out hovels Suzaku found for them back then..


In their own way, the surroundings of those two months had been just as extraordinary as the palace at 5 Saint Darwin Street.


The door clicked behind Lelouch as he left the hotel lobby, his overnight bag slung over his shoulder and his key dropped into the night deposit box. He doubted that Stadtfeld, Kallen, was going to report "Alan Spicer" to any kind of authority. Then again, he hadn't expected he'd have to flee from the imminent arrival of the police last time he'd stuck a toe into these waters. Better an abundance of caution than too little.


Well, the "she's a spy" theory seems dead in the water. I was right the first time; no spy who'd work for Clovis would stoop to serving soup to Honoraries. So, either she's somebody else's spy, or she just happened to try to break into my apartment right before she started hanging out with Rivalz.


It went against Lelouch's Pendragon-honed instincts, but coincidence seemed like the more likely option of the two. While there was certainly plenty of scheming going on in the Tokyo Settlement, he couldn't for the life of him think of any other faction that would be interested in him or Nunnally, except maybe the Purists.


Well, maybe some minor faction would want him to be the master of ceremonies for their private celebration of the new holiday Clovis had ordained in his memory.


And if the thought of one of Clovis's agents feeding Honorary Britannians is unlikely, the thought of a Purist agent doing the same thing is just laughable.


Purists aside, nobody else would have any interest in a prince and a princess supposedly six years dead, especially since the prince had been disowned and the princess was a cripple. The Japanese would probably kill him, but they surely had better things to do and probably wouldn't be able to recruit a noble spy. The Levelers, if they existed, wouldn't care about those the Emperor had already thrown away.


Maybe the Chinese or the Europeans? Both love to play the puppet "government in exile" game, although I think the Chinese would probably kill us just as readily as the Britannians. Royalty or not, they're not going to install a commoner's offspring on a throne. That would produce a bad precedent, at least in their eyes.


No, Lelouch decided firmly, that way lies paranoia. She's a nosy woman, far too intelligent for her own good, and she's probably up to something foolish. She's definitely connected to the Japanese somehow – she speaks the language like a native, and she's publicly associating with outright Elevens, not even just Honorary Britannians.


Either way, that's her problem, not mine. She's not after Nunnally and me.


For a moment, Lelouch felt accomplished. A minor mystery had been solved, a variable quantified. Then, his mood collapsed back down into the gutter. It was his first success in two weeks.


Two weeks wasted, two weeks without a single idea of how to move forwards… Lelouch kicked an empty beer can, sending the aluminum can skittering down the sidewalk. I need an idea, an edge… The Honoraries are a possibility; they seem pretty beaten down. On the other hand, they already knelt before my father once; they might do so again. And Suzaku…


Something inside Lelouch spasmed in pain at the memory of the current state of his best, and perhaps only, friend. His sudden appearance at the Rising Sun soup line had been a nasty surprise. Lelouch had been forced to blend into the crowd, head held low to obscure his features. It was unlikely that Suzaku would have recognized him, but Lelouch declined to take the risk.


Suzaku… I've been wondering if you were dead or alive for six years… Ever since we parted in that burnt-out town. I wish you had been there when Reuban found us… But I never expected you to turn out like this, Suzaku. What happened to you over these last six years?


His old friend had always gravitated towards authority and order. He had always seen things very clearly as right or wrong, with little patience for shades of gray. He had never shrunk from using violence to enforce and support what he saw as right. Lelouch could see all of those traits in the Suzaku who had threatened that Japanese woman with a baseball bat.


What he couldn't see were the less obvious traits of the Suzaku he had known. The honest kindness that had seen Suzaku tenderly doting on Nunnally, joining in Lelouch's endless descriptions of their surroundings so his blinded sister could feel included. The endless cheer that had followed Suzaku unflaggingly when they were younger. The sense of honor, the need to protect the weak and to care for those under his authority, instilled by Instructor Tohdoh. He had seen none of those traits in Corporal Kururugi.


Most of all, Lelouch hadn't seen the unflagging nationalism, the honest pride in his people and their culture, that the Suzaku he had known had carried as a standard.


Suzaku had been the one to teach him the culture and traditions of his people, the one to explain how to wear a kimono and how to open a bottle of ramune. Suzaku had been the one to sneak Lelouch into the ceremonies conducted at the heart of Kururugi Temple, the one who had bragged endlessly about anything Japanese. All of that was missing from the cold-eyed thug who wore his friend's skin and carried his name.


Still, at the very least, he's alive, Lelouch told himself. Nunnally will be overjoyed to hear it.


Unfortunately, Suzaku's reappearance hadn't sparked any inspiration. It had provided an example of how not to lead, but Lelouch hadn't needed any further examples when his father's shadow loomed so large over the entire world.


Perhaps the real lesson in that experience hadn't been Suzaku's actions, but the reaction they had provoked? Lelouch had seen the way the Honorary Britannians in the crowd and the Elevens at the serving line had looked at his old friend, and how they had looked at Stadfeld; he was certain that any attempt by the soldiers to harm her would have led to Suzaku and his men being torn limb from limb.


That's loyalty, the exiled prince thought as he continued down his solitary way. The streets were empty this late on a Monday night. A loyalty purchased by shared experience and mutual commitment. How had Stadtfeld bought it? Were some soup and commiseration truly enough? The King must lead, or else the pawns won't follow, but… how does one find the pawns to lead?


Even Suzaku found some pawns, at least four of them, an analytical corner of his brain pointed out, apparently by suborning the bonds created by an existing organization. Combined with his personal authority and the formal power granted by his rank, that was enough to create a cell willing to follow him into danger despite his lack of leadership skills.


Surely I could do better.


But what organization could I join to follow that pattern? The Army would require far too much documentation, not to mention a full-time commitment, which would effectively end my life at Ashford and separate me from Nunnally. Lelouch shook his head. The Army was a closed door to him for a multitude of reasons. But surely there are alternatives…


Mile upon mile of street and sidewalk disappeared under Lelouch's wandering feet. The hour was late and only getting later and he was no longer entirely sure where in the Tokyo Settlement he was. Somewhere northwest of the Concession, which lurked as a dark mound suspended on its vast supports over the nighttime horizon. He was in a Britannian working-class neighborhood, one much like the neighborhood south of the Ginza MagLev Station, the one where his first attempt at rabble-rousing had fizzled.


I wonder how the old men at the deli and Missus Fisk are doing? Lelouch thought, idling at a street corner. They were already treading water weeks ago, and prices, as always, had gone up since then. "Pedestrian concerns." Damn, what a fool I was to just dismiss all of their worries like that. I was so busy scanning for talking points that I forgot to listen to what they were saying.


A glint of silver reflecting from the grimy bricks of the alley across the street caught Lelouch's attention. For lack of anything better to do, Lelouch crossed the street to see what had caught some errant beam of light. He would have to turn his feet back towards Ashford Academy soon, or at least towards the nearest MagLev station, but something of the spirit of the night had taken hold of him, leaving him in a fey mood.


At first glance, the graffiti emblazoned across the stained bricks looked very similar to similar amateur paint jobs Lelouch had seen pretty much any time he ventured outside of Ashford Academy or the boundaries of the Concession. A broad silver line slashed across the wall was bisected by another similar line, and both were surrounded by a vaguely triangular shape. Something about it twigged Lelouch's attention and he leaned in closer, peering through the dark into the stinking alley.


If you squint at it, the triangle's sides bow out towards the middle before tapering down into the point… Almost like a shield, or a coat of arms. Suddenly interested, Lelouch pulled out his phone and thumbed on the light. In the white glare, he could see that the symbol had a smaller symbol in the upper left quarter of the pseudo-shield, daubed on the wall in black paint. The paint had smeared and dribbled, but he could just barely make out what looked like a P over an X.


P and X? He frowned, trying to puzzle out the hidden meaning. Perhaps the initials of the graffiti artist, or those of his sweetheart? Or, maybe… Maybe not a P and an X, but maybe the older Greek characters they came from… Rho and Chi. Lelouch's eyes widened slightly as a long-ago lesson in state dogma flashed through his mind. No, the other way around! Chi and Rho!


The squint deepened into a frown. The Britannic Church isn't popular, and I don't think I've met any Britannian who I'd call devout in my life. Almost nobody is anymore. In the Age of Darwin, it's passe. So, why would someone in a working-class neighborhood feel the need to paint an ancient and obscure Christain symbol on a wall, in a coat of arms…


As he mulled this fresh puzzle over, Lelouch scanned the rest of the wall with his phone light. Near the base of the wall, half hidden behind a dumpster, he saw a powder blue line pointing further down the alley. Walking around to the other side of the dumpster, he saw a vague looping pattern, followed by another X, or maybe a Chi and an eight.


The looping pattern looks like something in motion, Lelouch thought, bludgeoning his brain as he tried to remember the theology classes he'd been subject to so long ago. At the time, he'd considered them easily the most useless of his entire education, even less applicable than formal rhetoric or table etiquette. Maybe… Maybe a fish? That's important, I think. And an X and an eight would be… Eighteen?


What the hell am I doing, Lelouch suddenly wondered, wandering through alleys in the middle of the night? Nunnally's probably worried sick!


The thought of his sister broke through the peculiar fever that had infected Lelouch's mind. That's right, Nunnally expected me home hours ago. Sayoko probably put her to bed already, but she has trouble getting to sleep if I'm not there to say goodnight… And besides, I'm not going to figure out this mystery tonight; even if I did, what would I do with the solution? This will keep, and if it won't, there's no real loss.


Content with his evening's explorations, Lelouch turned his weary feet towards the MagLev station at long last. As he slumped down onto his seat aboard the train, he couldn't help but smile with anticipation. After days of intellectual starvation, he had finally found something to take his mind off his past failure and current listlessness.


I just hope that the news about Suzaku is enough to defer the scolding Nunnally's probably got simmering…

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 26: A Britannian Flower


(Thank you to Aminta Defender, Sunny, Restestsest, KoreanWriter, Mitch H., Rakkis157, MetalDragon, ScarletFox, and WrandmWaffles for beta-reading and editing this chapter. Thank you in particular to MetalDragon for his substantial input on the simulation sequence. Thank you to Aminta Defender for helping me thin out some of the scenes. I appreciate your help and advise.)


MAY 3, 2016 ATB
SHINJUKU GHETTO, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
2023


"-And according to Miss Fujiko, the Terminal #3 office will be completely empty, as the fumigation process isn't expected to wrap up until next Monday afternoon," Tanya said, pausing to turn to the next page in her notebook. "Which means that we have almost a week-long window to take action. After that, the weekly password will cycle, and infiltrating the Harbormaster's Office will have to be postponed, and of course, a delay in acquiring the information Kyoto requested would be…"


"Be unfortunate, yes, as it would probably reduce the value," Naoto sighed, eyes half closed as he tried to remember where exactly Tokai was concerning Shinjuku. Somewhere to the south… east, I think? "I suppose that's all doable. It's a bit of a trip from Shinjuku, though; way too far to walk, at least without the day pass lapsing. So, that leaves either stealing a car or taking the train, right?"


"That's right," Tanya confirmed, "and of the two, I think the train is the best option. Stealing a car introduces an unnecessary level of risk into the operation, as well as an uncontrolled factor. After all, what if the car's owner happens to notice four or five Numbers driving off in his sedan? Police attention for any reason is undesirable, especially since information known to be compromised loses a good deal of its value. Which would give Kyoto House an excuse to haggle us down."


"Alright, train it is," Naoto nodded along, fully aware that the younger halfbreed had likely already come to that decision and was probably just humoring him by explaining her reasoning. "That's going to require work passes, though. Plus some Britannian currency for the fare, not to mention getting the exterminator getups together."


"Already handled," Tanya's cool voice came on the heels of his own, "I spoke with Inoue before I headed over here. Work passes, train fare, bribe money, and a few extra pounds will be waiting at the station by the Kawadacho checkpoint, along with packs containing the jumpsuits, gas masks, and goggles, not to mention dummy canisters and aerosol dispensers. All we'll need to do is fill out our names on the passes and stroll on through."


Naoto nodded along, again more as a formality than anything else. The so-called "station" was, in truth, just a reinforced basement similar to the old Kozuki Cell headquarters, one of the many Tanya had commanded to be established throughout Shinjuku. The pocket strongholds were each garrisoned by a five-man squad at all times, with fresh units rotating every eight hours or so. Naoto didn't know how effective they'd be if push came to shove, but…


His brow creased; Naoto replayed the last few lines of the planning session back through his mind. Something was bothering him, something Tanya had said…


"Now," the diminutive resistance leader was saying, "I'm going to need every man chosen to have at least a decent grasp of Bri-"


"Wait a second," Naoto interrupted, palms pressed against the table as he halfway rose out of his chair. "Stop. Back up a step. What was the last thing you said?"


"All of the necessary materials will be waiting by the Kawadacho Checkpoint," Tanya replied, head tilted inquisitively, "Inoue told me she'd take care of it. All we'd need to do is write our names down on the work passes."


"Right, that's what I was afraid of." Naoto relaxed back into his seat and gave the girl a smile he didn't feel. That is what Hajime Tanya was, after all; a girl, a child. It was easy to forget that she was only slightly older now than Kallen had been when their father came for them. For all of her maturity, she still thought like a child in some surprising ways.


"Tell me, Tanya," he continued, speaking carefully and calmly, trying to sound as reasonable as possible without being patronizing, "why did you use the term 'we' regarding this strike team?"


A pair of big blue eyes blinked questioningly at him from across the table. "Because I would be leading the unit, of course," Tanya replied matter of factly as if that was a given. "I am probably the most experienced small unit leader we have present in Shinjuku, with Ohgi currently in Gunma. After all, I have led multiple small unit actions in just the last month. I can also speak Britannian without an Eleven accent"


"You are mostly correct," Naoto said, before explaining. "You are absolutely correct about your qualifications, even if I suspect that you're underselling yourself. However, you will not be leading the unit tomorrow. In fact, Tanya, you should consider yourself removed from the list of personnel available for this kind of mission." He paused. "Besides, aren't you a bit short to be an exterminator?"


"I'm… I'm sorry, but I don't understand what you're saying, Naoto." Tanya's tone was as cool and conversational as ever, but Naoto had grown wise to her game over the months. He heard the note of uncertainty under the smooth armor of the persona she had cultivated. Even if he'd missed that clear tell, the way her eyes had widened ever so slightly at his pronouncement would have served as an announcement of her sudden confusion.


So immature in strange ways, Naoto thought fondly. It almost feels like I caught her sneaking cookies or something. Didn't she raid Ohgi's snack stash that one time? I wonder if she ever realized that he'd bought those chocolate cookies specifically for her.


"Tanya," Naoto began again, "I know that you believe that leading the Rising Sun is your duty. Yes," he waved down the incipient interruption he knew was coming, "Yes, I know that you recognize my paramount leadership and so on. Just, please listen, alright?"


After a moment, the blonde slowly nodded, and Naoto continued. "Now, I know you feel like the Rising Sun is your duty. I don't know if I agree with that, but I will say you do a wonderful job at it. The people, in case you didn't know, love you. Personally, I think you have the blessing of the Gods, and that you are the leader we need. But, that doesn't mean you need to lead everything."


"And again," he waved placatingly at the brewing objection he could already hear, "I know that you delegate quite often. I am aware of your attempts to identify and raise more leaders to handle your duties. That's not what I'm talking about. Maybe I'm doing a bad job at explaining myself, but, to be completely blunt Tanya? You've become important. Too important. You are now too important to risk as the leader of a small unit."


He paused long enough to shoot her a dry smirk, "Congratulations, Tanya, you've become a general."


Naoto barely had time to lean back into his chair with his piece said before Tanya was jumping to rebuke it.


"I am not that important!" She immediately replied, words heated and passionate for all that she tried to hold onto her typical mask of chilly dispassion. "I am skilled, yes, and I am intelligent, but I am nothing special. You can give better speeches. Ohgi is a better teacher. Kallen will soon be the better fighter if she isn't already. Inoue is a far better logistician than I'll ever hope to be. I am good, but I'm not irreplaceable.


This…might just be the most genuine emotion I've seen out of her in quite a while. Naoto raised an eyebrow. Did I manage to touch a nerve somehow?


"I spent four months training twenty men and I got two of them killed. My greatest accomplishment was touching off a mass slaughter that has in turn spiraled out into a cycle of all-consuming violence!" With every word Tanya's volume and temper ratcheted higher and higher, dragging Naoto's worry over her mental state along with them. "And while I was busy leading good people to their deaths, you built a civic government and began a massive urban renewal project!"


"And, of course, I didn't stop there! I managed to negotiate not one but three disastrous bargains with Kyoto House," Tanya continued, "The first of which swapped handling dirty work for the Six Houses for an abandoned high school and the second of which involved indebting myself to a sociopath in exchange for basic supplies! The third deal handed the Six Houses a profit conservatively measured in the hundreds of thousands of pounds, if not the millions!"


I wonder how long she's been sitting on all of this, Naoto wondered, frown deepening with every word from her lips. Since Christmas, it sounds like.


"And then I spent weeks of my free time trying to figure out how to put my magic to use, and for all of that I got a half-assed joke I've only been able to use once!" The rant washed over Naoto as Tanya decided to take advantage of his invitation and the privacy to vent and get some things off her chest.


"So no, Naoto," Tanya said, her voice flattening back out, her pent-up emotions seemingly spent, "I am not irreplaceable. My magic is a non-factor, we have people capable of doing anything else I can do, and any public support I have is based on our Organization's material assets, not a particular regard for me personally.


"Were I to die tomorrow, the struggle would continue."


For a moment, both sat in uncomfortable silence. In the wake of her rant, Tanya seemed almost smaller somehow, almost lighter, as if she had been drained and exhausted by unburdening herself of her troubles. Naoto, on the other hand, was frantically scrambling for something to say in response to the matter-of-fact fatalism hanging in the air.


How do I inspire the girl who's inspired me to reach heights I'd never dared to dream of?


"...Perhaps," Naoto finally replied. "But… I'd miss you. So would Kallen. I know Ohgi would miss you too, as would Inoue, Nagata, Tamaki… Probably not Chihiro, but I doubt you'd miss her if she caught a bullet tomorrow either, so that's fair all the way around."


Naoto's small gallows-side joke was rewarded by an almost invisible smile, the corners of Tanya's mouth quirking up in cynical amusement for just a moment before she straightened her face back out again.


"That doesn't make me special, though," she stubbornly rebutted. "Most people have someone who would miss them if they die. I'm not special in that regard, nor irreplaceable. Everybody's lost something, yet the struggle will go on."


Naoto rubbed at his eyes. It's like dealing with Kallen, he thought with exasperation, but even worse. She's way too damned cynical for her age and she still hasn't figured out how to stop suppressing her emotions, at least when Oghi's not around.


"Look, Tanya," he tried again, "you're just wrong. I'm sorry, but that's just how it is. You've made yourself the face and the spirit of this fight. The fact is, for us rebels here? For the Rising Sun? You're more than a person, Tanya, you're a symbol now. You have to realize that, right?"


Predictably, Tanya fervently shook her head in denial.


I don't know whether to be depressed or annoyed, Naoto sighed. How about I settle for sarcastically amused?


"Oh, Tanya," Naoto groaned as he rubbed his tired eyes. "You're fucking killing me here, kid. Alright, let me spell it out for you."


He didn't need to look to know there was a frown on her adorably pinched face.


"You know why you're their symbol, Tanya?" Naoto started rhetorically, leaning in across the table for emphasis, "It's because you're a Shinjuku street rat, just like them. You've clawed your way to survive in this hell for years, just like them, all until you had enough power to do something."


"Most people? Hah-" Naoto let out a bitter laugh, "The moment they have an inch of power they use it to abuse everyone beneath them, always desperate for more. Selfish survival at all costs, even if it means you have to drag everyone else down to do it."


"But you, on the other hand?" Naoto shook his head with a proud grin. "When you found us, you didn't want us to just be another petty gang of power-hungry thugs. You inspired us to fight back against not just the Britannians, but against the gangs, the small evils that the JLF and Kyoto House tolerated and in fact made use of. As soon as you got money and supplies, you started distributing them to the community, sharing the wealth instead of hoarding it."


"Face it, Tanya," Naoto grinned at the girl, amused by how wobbly her stoic mask suddenly looked, "You are the prodigal daughter who's made it good and brought back food, medicine, and hope to the scrapings of the Ghetto. To them? I'm still an outsider. I still smack of Britannia and of nobility. I wasn't there. But you? You were. You were there with them. You haven't forgotten them. And they love you for it."


"Let's agree to disagree," Tanya proposed, her voice just slightly thicker than normal, hardly noticeable unless the listener was familiar with her usual metronome precision. "Whe-"


"Nope," Naoto cut her off, crossing his arms firmly over his chest.



Sorry Tanya, but if you're gonna be this stubborn I'm just going to have to pound this through your thick skull, Naoto thought, bracing himself for still more unpleasant conversation in an evening already full of the stuff. He could already see the shock at his interruption transmuting to outrage in Tanya's eyes. It's just like dealing with Kallen. Well, I guess it's time to put on my big brother pants again, eh?


"But, I-" Tanya started.


"Nope." Naoto shut her down again. He leaned down, making sure to meet her sapphire gaze, and spoke slowly and clearly, doing everything he could to broadcast his sincere intent. "You are irreplaceable, Tanya. That is a fact. The people love you, everyone in the organization loves you, I love you. And we wouldn't be anywhere near where we are today without your drive."


"I'm not!" Tanya protested futilely, the cracks in her mask growing, "I'm just-"


"The person who's inspired us to go farther than we ever dared dream?" Naoto smirked. "The girl who's led all of the most successful raids in our history? The kid who managed to take the fight straight to Britannia, and brought eight of her soldiers back alive? The only person I've heard of to pit infantry against Knightmares and win since Tohdoh left Itsukushima?"


She folded under the weight of her accomplishments, so Naoto ruthlessly pushed his advantage further.


"How about the girl who managed to negotiate with both the Six Houses and the JLF, people who were so far out of our league not even a year ago that I would have never even considered making contact?" Naoto leaned forward again, letting his voice soften. "I can't even begin to count the number of people who are alive today because of you, and you're only twelve. How many more lives will you impact as you grow older? How many more people will you inspire?"


Naoto sat back up, shaking his head with a soft chuckle. "The fact is, Tanya, you're the heart of this operation. Without you, we might all fall apart."


"Then why are you trying to demote me?" Tanya asked angrily, lashing out in response to his emotional appeal. "Why are you taking me away from the front, Naoto? Surely I am the best combat leader we have – why aren't you using me to my full potential? When we divided up responsibilities, you said I'd be in charge of combat operations! Have you changed your mind? Did I lose your confidence along the way?"


"What?" Naoto blinked, nonplussed. "No, don't be silly. Why would you even think that? Actually, no, don't bother. No, Tanya, you haven't lost my confidence or whatever. You're just too important. If anything, you're getting a promotion. I mean-"


He stopped himself and sighed, " Look, it's like… It's like chess. Do you know chess?"


When Tanya tentatively nodded, Naoto continued. "It's like chess. The king can't lead from the front, because if the king gets captured, that's it, game over. The king has to stay in the back and direct the movement of the other pieces. If a pawn or a bishop gets it, that's a loss. If the king gets it, well…that's that, game over."


"And so I can't lead from the front… I've got to stay in the rear…" A complicated expression crossed Tanya's face, and even after months of experience with the enigmatic girl with ancient eyes, Naoto couldn't begin to unravel what it meant. "A cushy position in the rear… because I'm too valuable to risk in combat…" Suddenly, she was glaring at him. "Is this some kind of joke?" she hissed, "are you trying to protect me like you did with Kallen?"


"Nope," Naoto easily replied. "I learned my lesson. Strange as this might be to say, considering that you are technically still too young to take your high school admissions exams, but your ability as a planner, a propagandist, and a living symbol now outweigh your admittedly impressive skills as a soldier, junior officer, and assassin."


Frustratingly, she still looked somewhat unconvinced. Gods, what do I need to say to her? Naoto half-thought, half-prayed. How do you convince someone who goes to war like she's meeting her beloved that she can do far more damage from behind a desk?


Suddenly, inspiration struck.


"I'm not trying to protect you, Tanya," Naoto continued, "I'm trying to take maximum advantage of a scarce resource; namely, your mental capabilities. There are over two hundred thousand people in Shinjuku, good killers and squad leaders are ultimately replaceable. Those who aren't replaceable are people like you. People who can command power with the wisdom and compassion needed to actually save our people."


"Wisdom and compassion? Pheh!" Tanya's scorn was obviously played up, a cheap emotional display to conceal the more sincere emotions Naoto could practically feel radiating off her from across the table. "Well, you are the leader and the Kozuki of the Kozuki Organization. If you're really sure about this…"


"I am," Naoto said firmly. "If I am your leader, I will put you where I think you will do the most good for the Cause. In this case, I firmly believe your mind is more valuable than your trigger finger."


"Well, in that case…" Tanya rubbed briefly at her eyes before lifting her notebook to her face and flipping through some pages. "Hang on, I have a list of promising squad leaders from amongst the Sun Guard somewhere…"


For the remainder of the meeting, Naoto stayed on edge, waiting for the seemingly inevitable moment when Tanya would just "happen" to task herself with some sort of role in tomorrow's mission, or in one of the multitudes of other, smaller tasks that involved significant personal risk. The moment never came, and the remainder of the meeting was quite productive.


As he got ready for bed and slipped between the sheets of his cot, all Naoto could think about was how, strangely, he had finally made good on the request Ohgi had made during that drinking session up on the roof of this very building almost a year ago now. He had finally found a role for Tanya in the Organization that kept her far from the frontline.


Somehow, he thought as he drifted off to sleep, I doubt this is quite what Ohgi had in mind.


MAY 4, 2016 ATB
ASHFORD ACADEMY, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
1400


"Attention all students," Milly's voice came in, chipper and bright over the intercom as she interrupted sixth period, "please report to the gymnasium for a mandatory assembly. Teachers, please make sure your students arrive at the gym in the next fifteen minutes. See you there!"


At the front of the classroom, Missus Selwyn, the literature teacher, sighed as she dropped her chalk and wiped the dust off her fingers. "I suppose John Donne can wait for another day since I doubt this assembly will be over by the time the bell rings. He has waited four centuries, so it shouldn't be that much of an imposition."


Kallen forced herself to return the teacher's smile as she hastily packed her materials away and buried the familiar anger. Of course I couldn't enjoy one of the few things I like about this school in peace. No, of fucking course not! Milly just has to shove her arrogant head into things.


Missus Selwyn, at only thirty-three years old, was one of Ashford's younger teachers, and definitely one of the most popular. That was most likely due to her lax approach to homework, as well as the way she filled out her dress. Kallen had heard more than enough whispers swapped between the boys, and the girls, sitting around her regarding that particular topic, enough to make her gag.


I wonder if their disgusting depravity comes from being Britannians, nobles, or teenagers? Kallen grumbled internally. She very carefully didn't think about the fact that she was all three of those as well.


Still, what Kallen appreciated about Missus Selwyn was her actual skill as a teacher, not as a source of easy A's or eye candy. Unlike many of Ashford's other teachers, Missus Selwyn brought a genuine enthusiasm for her topic into the room. Her class never felt like she was just checking boxes off a list of mandatory topics while filling her students' heads with Britannian indoctrination; it felt like she took them on a real journey through history and culture every period. Though even for a literature teacher there were subjects and interpretations even Missus Selwyn avoided.


She was enthusiastic about teaching, not suicidal.


In the endless swamp of irritations great and small best known as Ashford Academy, Missus Selwyn's class was an enriching experience for Kallen, something that always made her soul sing with relief.


And that's a hell of a lot more than I can say about anything else in this gaudy shithole, Kallen thought as she sucked in a harsh breath, trying to force her anger back under control. And of course, Milly had to ruin it for her own amusement just like always. Can't wait to see what absurd farce she has waiting for us this time.


Kallen sighed and flipped her Academy-issued valise closed. She joined the queue at the classroom's door, wincing slightly whenever another student jostled her. Tanya had been particularly aggressive during yesterday's training session, not that Kallen minded.


Far from it! Kallen grinned to herself. I pinned her three out of five times last night! Her damned midget arms can't hold me down anymore! The grin faded. Now if only I could beat her on the range, she'd have to send me to The School…


The tiny tributary of teenagers fleeing from the works of John Donne fed into the slowly swelling river of the student body as more students poured out of classrooms and laboratories. Most took the opportunity presented by the sudden break from routine to chat with their friends as they made their way down to the Academy's massive gymnasium.


How many could I kill if I planted just a single bomb here, in this hall? Kallen wondered idly as she picked her way through the crowd. I wonder how many of these pampered nobles would survive to get the wake-up call they so richly deserve?


Kallen let the pleasant image of the aftermath, drawn from her memories of the subway station, linger. It was a temporary refuge from reality. The thoughts of stuffy Britannians screaming and crying as the real world crashed down on them in all of its horrors lifted her mood from her thoughts of Milly's frivolous interference. But, after a moment, Kallen regretfully let the fantasy drift away.


After all, I don't need Tanya giving me another lecture. She shivered at the thought. Her friend had made it abundantly clear to Kallen how unhelpful such an act would ultimately be, the one time she'd proposed it …But it's still fun to think about.


Heh! Just the thought of Milly's horrified face as her whole palace burns around her… This time, the smile that slipped onto Kallen's face was entirely genuine.


Keeping that thought in mind, Kallen kept the smile on her face as she rejoined the chattering flow. She was a professional, as she had so often told herself, and so she played her part as the well-adjusted and socially engaged young lady to the hilt as she made her way to the gymnasium. She nodded happily to anybody who made eye contact, fueling her smile with secret thoughts of murder.


I wonder how many of the smiles surrounding me are equally deceptive? It was a troubling thought. I mean, I'm betting none of these idiots have any idea who I really am or what I do at night, but that can cut both ways. How many of these smiling students are secretly police informers, eager to pass my name on to their handlers?


I can't stand out. I can't slip up. I can't trust any of them, not one bit.


Suddenly inspired by the paranoia-inducing thought, Kallen allowed herself to be dragged into a conversation with Steven and Cara, from the Student Newspaper. The nattering and shallow exchange was a waste of time in her opinion, even if it did make for effective social camouflage, and she happily moved on even before Cara started glowering at her. Cara tended to be protective of her boyfriend, and Kallen might have even called her clingy if it wasn't for Steve's wandering eyes, or hands.


As it was, she could only hope that he was found out in a suitably public fashion to maximize both of their embarrassment.


Is there a more revolting cesspool of disgusting masks and depraved intent than this excuse for a school? Maybe it's on purpose, to give kids practice at the circus called noble politics? Kallen almost sneered.


And don't think I didn't notice you two coming out of the ladies' room together, Kallen thought, adding the tiny detail to her internal notes as she swapped speculations about the surprise assembly with Cara. I wonder if Ashford has a maternity uniform ready to be issued? Considering who designed this absurd uniform, I wouldn't be surprised.


As she left her slow-moving club members behind, the pair seemingly more focused on each other than on the assembly they were supposed to be heading towards, Kallen noticed another quiet figure skulking along the wall.


That's the nerd from my chemistry class, right? Umm… Kallen frowned, trying to remember the name. Something European, right? Einstan? Eizenstein? No… Einstein! Nina Einstein, that's right. She's on the Student Council with Rivalz and Milly, and judging by how the teacher talks to her, something of a science prodigy.


For a moment, Kallen weighed her options. On the one hand, she'd love nothing more than to ignore the girl whose unsubtle gaze had lingered on Kallen uncomfortably often over the last few months. On the other hand, she had to at least appear to be a sociable young Britannian lady, and speaking with the quiet nerd with eyes for her would probably be less infuriating than dealing with any of her louder "peers".


Plus, if she really is that much of a science prodigy, perhaps I'll find some use for her.


"Hey there, Nina!" Kallen chirped in her best Milly Ashford-inspired voice; the immediate wave of self-loathing she experienced probably meant she had struck the proper balance of vapidity and smug self-satisfaction. God, I hate this place.


Still, Kallen forced her revulsion down and focused on the task at hand with all the false cheer she could manufacture. "Looking forward to the assembly?"


"Oh… Hi, Kallen…" The bespectacled girl's greeting was almost drowned out by the ambient clatter of the hallway. Kallen resisted the urge to demand that she speak up. "How… how are you…?"


Let's see, I've interacted with Nina a grand total of once before, and that was when I just asked if we'd had homework for chem the night before. So… no information about her likes or dislikes. Other than that wandering eye of hers. Damn. Sincerity it is, I guess.


"Curious to hear what interrupted literature class," Kallen replied with a grimace. "I stayed up late to finish last night's homework, and Selwyn didn't even collect the assignments before the announcement came in. I could have gotten a whole hour of sleep and pushed the essay on iambic pentameter off for a whole 'nother day!"


"You… Uhh… You shouldn't wait on your homework…" Nina retorted, flushing slightly under Kallen's incredulous gaze. "Well… It would only get worse… And this way, you won't have to do it tonight, right?"


"Well… You might have a point there," Kallen grudgingly admitted, "I guess that will give me time to catch back up on chemistry, freakin' molarity…"


"D-do you want any help…?" Nina timidly asked, clearly forcing herself to look at Kallen as she spoke. "I… I'd probably be able to help explain stuff to you…"


Real subtle, Nina. Kallen nearly sighed aloud with her irritation. It's totally not like you've been struggling to not stare at my tits the whole time we've been talking, right? Still, I could probably use a few pointers, and it wouldn't be too much trouble to break her if she got too handsy. And, unlike Milly, she doesn't have any special social status to protect her.


"I might take you up on that offer some other day," Kallen said aloud, "but I've got plans already. I really would appreciate some help, though – you seem to truly have a knack for all this science stuff!"


"T-thanks…" Nina blushed, "I genuinely like it… hard numbers, hard facts… it's way easier to understand t-than people are…"


"Aren't you on the Student Council?" Kallen asked as they approached the gym's entrance, feigning ignorance. "I think I remember Rivalz mentioning you at some meeting?"


"I'm the Treasurer…" Nina mumbled, "I'm good with math too… Math and science… and computers… that's all I'm really good for…"


"Hey now, no need to be down on yourself," Kallen replied, suddenly uncomfortable. Dammit, Tanya's the reassuring one! I'm the one who asks the hard questions! Well, me and Naoto… And Diethard… Maybe I need to branch out? "There's nothing wrong with liking computers! Heck, I wish I liked math too. That would make things so much easier."


"Thanks, Kallen…" Nina replied with a shy smile. "H-hey… Are you, uhh… Are you busy after the assembly?"


"Depends on how long it goes; if Milly doesn't take too long, we've still got seventh and eighth periods," Kallen pointed out. "And yeah, I have plans after school today, remember? Sorry, Nina. Maybe some other day?"


"Y-yeah…" Nina sighed, not before shooting Kallen what the Stadtfeld heiress could only describe as a glance pregnant with longing. "Someday… Bye, Kallen."


"Bye Nina," Kallen replied awkwardly as the shorter girl disappeared into the milling crowd of students. "See you around…"


What a creep, Kallen thought with a shiver of disgust as she waited for the crush of students around the gym's entrance to dissolve. A pair of teachers were bellowing something about standing in alphabetical order by last name, so Kallen moved towards the back of the crowd, reasoning that the "S's" would probably be at the back of the assembly anyway. Well, maybe not a creep. Just an awkward and weird girl. But… Man, even Rivalz isn't that obvious. Learn some control, Nina. Ugh.


Then Kallen remembered who she attended school with. Not just the Britannian noble children, with their arrogance and games and careless hedonism, who made up the student body, but the self-proclaimed Queen of Ashford Academy and sitting President of the Student Council. …Admittedly, all things considered, it's a miracle you're as reasonable as you are, Nina. After all, you could be another Milly.


Then, as if even thinking the name had somehow summoned her presence, a miniaturized yet energetic pocket catastrophe fell on Kallen's shoulders.


"Heya Kallen," a smirking Milly Ashford said by way of greeting, slipping out from the crowd and into Kallen's personal space, "Long time no see! It's almost like you've been avoiding me!"


"Not at all, Madam President," Kallen replied to the blonde, suppressing her rage at the other girl's faux-pout in favor of a sweetness just a hint too saccharine to be sincere. "I've just been very busy lately, you know how it is. Finals are less than a month away, so I've been pretty busy reviewing."


If pressed, Kallen would be forced to admit that she no longer hated Milly the same way she had last year, before their little detente in January when Milly had let her mask of aloof whimsy momentarily slip. The revelation that the teasing blonde actually gave a shit about Rivalz and even seemed to sincerely care about Kallen had been eye-opening. No longer did Milly seem like some sort of cold-hearted spider, constantly attempting to enmesh her in her shadowy web.


That slight improvement in her opinion of the other girl hadn't diluted the rest of Kallen's resentment, however. Whether or not she had a heart didn't change the fact that Milly swanned about the place as if it was her personal palace, tweaking and teasing everyone around her in elaborate manipulations for no purpose but her own sense of whimsy and perverse pleasure.



Oh yes, I still hate that frivolous bitch. I'd hack that oh-so-carefully shampooed hair from her scalp with a dull knife if I could get away with it. Kallen scowled internally. But, I can't say she's completely worthless as a human being. She's just a juvenile, nosy, arrogant, horny brat of a Britannian lady who's in dire need of a reality check outside the walls of her little empire, where she holds all the cards.


An image flitted through her brain, of taking Milly down to Shinjuku to see that pile of butchered meat they'd turned those other Britannian pervs into. Of showing the Ashford heiress her brother's special basement, where they'd ground the remains of other arrogant Britannians down into so much ash and slurry. Of introducing her to Tanya. Kallen knew it would never happen, but the daydream tasted as sweet as sin.


"Boooring!" Milly rolled her eyes dramatically, her expression suddenly drooping with feigned weariness. "You're going to grow old and gray before your time if you keep it up, and then how will you get a boyfriend?! Live a little, Kallen!"


Live a little? Kallen almost sneered. Do you call indulging in classroom debauchery living?


"I live plenty already, thank you very much," Kallen replied cooly. "I've got my classes, all of my holidays are booked solid with all the stupid social events my mother keeps forcing me to attend, and I've got my extracurricular! I'm busy enough, and that's not even getting into my study time!"


"Your extracurricular?" The damnable smirk returned to Milly's face, the exhausted mask vanished without a trace. "Which one? Do you mean the Ashford Gazette? Or do you mean the charity you're running out in the Settlement? From what I hear, you put on quite the performance there on Monday! I guess there's hope for you after all, Stadtfeld! I knew you had to have some of that deliciously hot redheaded passion somewhere deep inside!"


Fuck! In that instant, Kallen had to resist the urge to whirl around and pin Milly by her throat until her poisoned tongue protruded, bloated and swollen, from between her lips. Remember why you're here, Kozuki!


"I don't know what you're talking about," Kallen replied, trying to stall. "There isn't much about Monday that I'd call passionate. The soup was kind of spicy, I guess."


What does she know? Kallen scrambled through the memories of the night in her head. Whatever she knows, she got it from Rivalz. That boy is obsessed with her and would tell her anything she wanted to hear. So… She knows about the encounter with the soldiers, but not my talk with Alan. Why does she care about any of that?


"Ah, ah, ah!" Milly waggled a reproving finger under Kallen's nose. Kallen resisted the temptation to bite it off. "None of that sass! I know exactly what you did, even second-hand! Kallen, you might as well have handed that poor man a sword and told him to go slit open his belly! I mean, it probably would have been kinder than eviscerating him with words like you did!"


Milly smiled. "I'm proud of you, Stadtfeld. You're growing into a splendid young Britannian flower."


A splendid Britannian flower?! Kallen's teeth ground together so hard her gums ached, and it took all she had not to slug the bitch in the face. Fuck. You.


The tinkling of bells filled the air and Milly's eyes flew open. Her hand darted into her pocket, and as Kallen very carefully didn't react to the sudden movement she pulled out her phone and turned off an alarm. "Looks like I gotta go! Sorry Kallen, I'd love to chat, but today's a special day and I'm a little busy! Things to see, people to do, you know how it is!"


"Sure, whatever," Kallen said, still trying to push down her boiling fury. "Don't let me keep you, Madam President."


"Make sure you don't slip out of the assembly early, Kallen!" Milly said, turning on her heel and starting to dart away into the crowd. "It's in the memory of our dear departed royals, after all! Plus, there's a surprise at the end, and I'm betting you're gonna love it~!"


Kallen's eyes narrowed. "A surprise…?" She started through gritted teeth, but Milly was already gone, lost in a sea of uniforms.


Fuck. What does that bitch have planned next? Kallen forced her jaw to unclench with an angry breath. Dammit, I can't let this get to me. Deep breaths, Kallen. Focus on the mission.


Minutes later, Kallen finally found her way into the gymnasium and to her allotted spot in the neatly ordered lines. Finally, after much shuffling around, the assembly began with the opening bars of the Academy's anthem blaring through the public address system. Then Milly took the stage, leaping up onto the platform where commentators and referees sat during volleyball games, and where a podium with a microphone dutifully awaited her arrival.


"Goooooooooooood afternoon to all the handsome boys and pretty girls out there! And also to the rest of the Ashford student body. How are you doing this fine spring day?" The blonde basked in the dutiful applause and the adoring cries of "Milly, be my girlfriend!" from the audience. Kallen resisted the urge to scowl at the theatrics. "Glad to see you're all awake out there!"


"Now, while I'm sure you all would love nothing more than to watch me rock the stage for the next half hour or so…" Milly paused invitingly, and a chorus of wolf whistles obliging rose from the crowd, "I'm going to hand you all over to Major Pitt, of His Majesty's Armed Forces Reserve Officer Training Corps! I do so love a dashing man in uniform, so please be kind to him!"


The man Milly handed the microphone over to was, in Kallen's opinion, far from dashing. A finely pointed waxed mustache thirty years out of style failed to liven up the face of a born bureaucrat, and while his uniform was well tailored and fit him well, it still failed to be particularly flattering. But none of that changed the fact that he was still Britannian military, a threat and an enemy to any who opposed his cruel Empire.



I have a bad feeling about this.


"Good afternoon, my lords and ladies," Major Pitt began, his tone almost depressingly mundane after Milly's enthusiasm. "Thank you all for attending this assembly, and thank you to Ashford Academy for giving me some time to speak with you."


At some invisible signal, a light wave of applause washed through the gymnasium. Kallen reluctantly joined in, clapping presumably at the mention of the Academy's name. At least the bastard in gray shut up for a moment, so I guess that's something.


After a moment, Major Pitt waved for quiet and continued as the desultory applause faded away. "I'm sure that you are all aware that our beloved Viceregal-Governor, Prince Clovis, has declared May the Fourth as Vi Britannia Day, a holiday dedicated to his much lamented… royal… siblings."


What the hell? Kallen frowned, slightly confused. What was with that pause just now? And… it's a bit hard to tell from all the way back here, but did Pitt just sneer at the mention of the dead kids? That's… weird.


"I have a prepared statement to read on His Highness's behalf," Pitt said as he opened an envelope on stage, no trace of his peculiar expression remaining as he unfolded the contents. "Indeed, all of you fine young lords and ladies should be honored; this speech came straight to my hands from His Highness's desk itself, written expressly for you on this very first Vi Britannia Day.


"To all of my dear subjects," the Major began, making no attempt to add any rhetorical flair as he read the speech straight from the page. He apparently hadn't been chosen for his assignment on the basis of charisma. Or showmanship. "And in particular to all of the sweet students of Ashford Academy, I bid you greetings. Sadly, I cannot bid you the joyous greetings that the flower of the youth of Britannia deserves, as my heart is burdened with the tragedy of six years ago.


"Indeed, it was six years ago that my dear little half-brother, Lelouch vi Britannia, as well as his sister Nunnally, were callously murdered by the Japanese. It was the second great insult that petulant race offered up against our glorious Empire and the one that cuts me deeply to this day. Their first offense was a gauntlet thrown down at the feet of our Emperor as the head of state, but the murders were a cowardly attempt to knife the heart of our Imperial Father."


Just a pity we couldn't force a real knife between his ribs somehow… Kallen thought, enjoying the mental image as she tried to ignore the slights against her subjugated nation.


Up on stage, Pitt continued on, his delivery growing flatter with each passing sentence. "If my siblings were alive today, oh Ashford Students, they would walk amongst you. Lelouch would be sixteen this year, and Nunnally thirteen. Perhaps they would have been your classmates. And so, I now charge you to go forth to remake the world in their memory. To make a world more beautiful, more artistic, and more Britannian than the cruel world that took them.


"This I, Clovis la Britannia, Third Prince of the Britannian Empire, command you! All Hail Britannia!"


"ALL HAIL BRITANNIA!"


Even as Kallen joined her voice with the crowd's in acclaiming the empire she hated, she could only smile with pride at the last actions of the long-dead Prime Minister Kururugi, so different from his degraded son. For all of his foolishness in life, at least the Prime Minister had struck one last blow against Britannia by killing the hostage royals before he further denied Britannia the spectacle of his ritual execution.


For all of his failures as a leader, Kallen reflected, Kururugi Genbuu died with honor. At least Charles, the Man of Blood, learned the pain of losing his children thanks to the Conquest. Not that he probably cared, the monster.


"Now…" Major Pitt asked, absently returning the envelope containing the prince's speech to his jacket pocket as if it was a mundane document, nothing more important than a utility bill. "How many of you are familiar with the ROTC?"


A forest of hands rose. Kallen raised her hand as well so she wouldn't stand out in the crowd.


"Good to hear," Pitt said with a perfunctory smile. "For those unaware, the ROTC is a training cadre for young people from good families, such as yourselves. We provide a first introduction to the basics of military life and strive to educate Britannia's generals, admirals, and commanders of tomorrow, today. For those who show particular aptitude or dedication, the ROTC provides a special track to institutes of higher learning, including the Imperial College at Colchester."


Excited murmurs ran through the assembled student body. Kallen remained quiet, but she could understand the enthusiasm. The Imperial College was the premier center for higher learning in the Empire, and virtually all of the major military, industrial, and technological figures of note in the last century and a half had passed through its halls, including Reuban Ashford, the Academy's headmaster and the father of the modern Knightmare Frame.


The Imperial College at Colchester was also, Kallen knew, her own father's alma mater. She had seen the famous seal on a framed diploma hanging in his office at the family's ancestral estate, back in the Homeland, at New Leicester.


"But of course, the ROTC also has a mission to find and recruit promising candidates for roles as junior officers, specialists, or even in admittedly limited cases, Knightmare Devicers!" At the mere mention of the prized position, the major had the entire student body hanging onto his every word. Kallen was tempted to roll her eyes, but even she couldn't fully deny the flicker of interest deep inside.



Yet, neither could she deny her own churning instincts, all of which screamed that she was under threat, that this unassuming man was an enemy of hers in particular. What's your angle here, Major? Come to find more second sons eager to lay down their lives for a taste of pride?


"Yes, if you have ambitions to one day receive a knighthood and serve in His Majesty's Armed Forces as a devicer, your best option is to join ROTC, where you will have access to simulators and instructors," Major Pitt said, continuing his sales pitch. "Yes, not everybody can become a devicer – only the best! But, if you do manage it, you'll become the armored fist, the bared sword of the Empire!"


Of course. Kallen wanted to sneer. The "best of the best". Her lip twitched as she remembered the story Tanya had recounted, of how the so-called "bared sword of the Empire" met their ignoble end at the hands of a decent ambush conducted by infantry armed with simple rockets. But sure, keep padding their ego. After all, how else are you going to fill your purse with blood money if you can't scrape enough fodder together for the meat grinder? Gotta meet that quota!


"Why," the Major's waxed mustache flicked upwards in a smile, "it was less than a decade ago that those devicers, the Empire's later-day knights, seized this land from its unworthy inhabitants, conquering this barbaric country in three days of victory! When those pathetic Numbers caught sight of our glorious knights, they fled from the field in awe and terror! And all their excuse of a leader could do was kill a couple of children out of petty spite."


Lies! Kallen's soul screeched with indignant fury, ignoring the sour grapes of the Major's last sentence. Lies lies lies!


Yet for all of her anger, she couldn't immediately refute his claims. The Conquest had officially taken a month to complete active operations, but all of the major fighting had taken place during the first three days, including the famous Miracle at Itsukushima. The mop-up, of course, had continued through to the present.


Yeah! We didn't just flee! We're still fighting, you bastard!


"Why, I remember those days fondly. I was there myself, you know! Cutting down the cowardly Eleven 'army' like wheat before the scythe, showing them that their primitive military was no match for a truly honorable foe." The Britannian allowed himself a hearty chuckle. "Really, that's all the Elevens were good for, left to their own devices: running, hiding, and dying like the worthless dogs. They should thank us for taking them in hand!"


It was all Kallen could do to keep herself from growling aloud. Her hands ached from how tightly she clenched her fists, rage boiling in her veins. Her teeth ground together as she fought for self-control. She could hardly even think, so consumed was she with the effort of reigning in her hatred for the mediocre little man who bragged of slaughter.


And bragged to children about it! Kallen suspected the bland Major Pitt had been far from the cutting edge; otherwise, his words wouldn't reek quite so strongly of insecurity. A pig like him probably hasn't ever spilled blood. He's just gloating about the sacrifices of better men. Typical of Britannia.


"That is what the ROTC can offer you – a chance to become a knight, to go abroad seeking monsters to slay! And," Pitt grinned, "perhaps rescue a fair prince or princess as your very own reward along the way!"


A wave of lecherous laughter and whoops, both masculine and feminine, swept through the Academy gymnasium, accompanied by a susurration of fervent whispers as seemingly every student present exchanged dreams of glory and conquest. Britannian to the core, all of them.


The smile Kallen forced onto her lips hurt, but she fed it with dreams of her own glorious war. One day, I'll be the one peeling the skin off your cowardly backs.


"But," Major Pitt continued after the raucous laughter died down, "even if you aren't looking for a career in the military or planning on attempting higher education, ROTC can open many doors for you. The inclusion of ROTC on your resume will tell potential employers that…"


The sales pitch continued, peppered with smarmy thanks to the Ashford Administration for finally allowing ROTC to set up shop on campus, a "development that is far overdue, unfortunately, delayed by the circumstances of the Area."


For her part, Kallen did her best to endure the interminably long speech, trying to hold onto her anger as it was slowly drowned in a rising tide of boredom. She idly noted that office space had already been set aside for the on-campus recruiting mission and that part of the Equestrian Club's riding grounds would be converted into a rifle range.


Focusing on the details helped her control her temper.


Twenty minutes later, Major Pitt finally started winding down his speech. "Thank you very much for your close and patient attention. Remember, my door is always open. Now, without further ado, I'll hand you back to the gorgeous Miss Ashford."


"Thanks, Major!" Kallen stifled a groan as Milly bounced back onto the stage. "And thank you, all you Ashfordians! Let's give the Major a hearty round of applause to thank him for his time!"


Like a marionette dancing on a string, Kallen dully brought her hands together three times before abandoning the pretense. How much longer is this damned assembly going to take? She groaned inside her head, shifting her weight from foot to foot to try and channel some of her antsy energy. Even by Britannian standards, it's a waste of everybody's time. And we're paying tuition to be here!


"You've all been very patient," Milly said from on stage as if she'd heard Kallen's unspoken complaint, "and my grandfather and I really appreciate it. I'm sure Major Pitt does too! In fact, the Major actually set up a little activity to thank you all and to celebrate Vi Britannia Day!"


An ominous feeling washed over Kallen as uniformed men started wheeling boxy structures that looked suspiciously familiar into the gymnasium, one by one until a full two dozen of the things stood between the audience and the stage.


"So, all you fine-strapping young men and fine stripping-young ladies," Milly winked, "haven't you ever wanted to see what it's like to pilot a Knightmare?"


The crowd roared in agreement, a horde of screaming children crying out for a taste of martial honor without the faintest concept of what it meant to fight for your life. In that roar, Kallen thought she heard the true anthem of Britannia, stripped of all of its civilized pretensions.


Animals, all of them, she thought with disgust even as she raised her own enthusiastic voice. And they have the nerve to call us barbarians!


The teachers once again had to provide crowd control as the student body stampeded towards the line of what Kallen had belatedly recognized were KMF simulators. The iron-lunged PE instructor, backed by the Assistant Headmaster, managed to impose order, chivvying eager students into a long queue, which fed into the waiting simulators.


Not wanting to stand out in the enthusiastic horde, Kallen allowed herself to be herded into line and prepared to wait. The feeling of ominous tension in her gut only increased as the crowd's enthusiasm continued to mount. Something was going to happen very soon, Kallen could tell, something big, something awful. Every nerve in her body already felt like it had been scraped with a dull knife.


At least the boredom of standing in line was mildly alleviated once one of the tech's set up a screen displaying a digital scoreboard.


"We score your results based on the number of targets destroyed and the length of your time in the simulation," Major Pitt explained as the first students mounted the steps to the simulators. "The number of targets destroyed helps us quantify your reaction time and coordination, while the time helps us estimate your endurance."


Only a minute later, the first score appeared on the board as a simulator door popped open and a rather chubby boy staggered down the steps. The three columns of the screen populated with the boy's initials, the number of targets he had eliminated (zero), and how long he had lasted in the simulation, all of eight seconds.


"What kind of test are you running?" Kallen could clearly hear the petulance over the noise of the crowd. "There's no way that's fair! How the hell was I supposed to react to that?! I could barely dodge the first strike!"


"Ha!" Pitt barked, "I said we were here to recruit the best of the best, did I not? Seizing the glory of being a devicer is an honor reserved for only the most elite." The Major smirked. "We certainly couldn't let any common rabble carry the honor of the Imperial Knightmare corps, now could we?"


The boy balked at the man's choice of words and Kallen could feel the overall mood of the crowd dim slightly at his public humiliation. The whispers started quietly, but grew rapidly; the sotto voce sentiments were clearly shared by the bulk of the crowd.


"I don't want to just embarrass myself…"


"Do I really have a chance?"


"It sounds hopeless!"


Kallen almost scoffed, twisting her face into a mask of concern to fit in with the cowards around her. Just one hint of adversity, and you're already willing to call it quits? Typical Britannian nobility; no stomach for real work. No stomach for fake real work, even!


Up at the front of the line, just below the stage, Major Pitt frowned heavily at the sudden storm of disconsolate muttering. After a moment, he sneered at the balking line of students and pulled a notepad from his uniform jacket. To Kallen's sudden interest, Milly's polite smile stretched into a mockery of itself at the sight of the tiny black book. Immediately, she stepped forward and rested a hand on his shoulders.


"Not to worry, Major – of course they're a little shy! We so rarely enjoy the company of visiting notables such as yourself, after all! Even my heart flutters at the thought of making a fool of myself in front of you!" Milly's eyes darted back and forth over the crowd, undeniably frantic until alighting upon a target, an earnest if vulpine grin suddenly springing across her face. "Well, Mr. Vice-President, come on up here! Your constituents need encouragement!"


The packed gymnasium burst into excited tittering and the throng ahead of Kallen parted to allow a clear path up to the stage. At the end of the path, previously concealed by the cover of the crowd, a dark figure crossed his arms and glared.


"Please, Lelouch?" Milly begged, and while her smile remained plastered across her face, Kallen thought she heard a note of surprising sincerity underneath the lighthearted needling. "Come on up here and help us all show the dear Major the depth of our loyalty!"


With obvious reluctance, Lelouch Lamperouge climbed the steps up the bleachers and joined Milly on the referee platform turned temporary stage. Kallen had to admit they made an impressive pair; almost exactly equal in height, Lelouch's raven hair was a perfect contrast to Milly's cornsilk blonde. Like her, he smiled as he stared out over the crowd, but Kallen noticed how his hands balled into fists before he nonchalantly tucked them behind his back.


"Well, there you have it, ladies!" Milly shouted, "the top scorer will be wined and dined in our darling Lelouch's illustrious company." As the cheers crescendoed, the blonde leered. "If you are lucky, maybe you'll even luck your way into a passionate night – only the finest for the heroes and heroines of Britannia!"


Are people really this shallow? Kallen wondered, feeling suddenly very alone in the jubilant atmosphere. She knew the Vice-President was popular for some inestimable reason, but an obligatory date seemed entirely meaningless to her, barring Milly's mention of a passionate night. There's just no way she'd make him go through with that, would she? There's no way, but… No. Not even Britannians would sell themselves so cheaply… Would they?


"As for the gentlemen..." Milly's eyes swept over the room, on the hunt once more. "We need a noble lady of refined grace and skill for such a special occasion, which means I unfortunately don't qualify." Her laugh was slightly too shrill. Kallen wondered what she was so scared of. Displeasing her Britannian masters, presumably. "Hmm? What do you say, Shirley? Maybe your dear Lulu will rescue you, eh? Your very own knight in shining armor!"


"Madame President!" a red-haired girl wailed from up in front of Kallen. To Kallen's vague disgust, she didn't sound very offended by the suggestion. To her ears, the other girl's objections bore an unmistakably eager edge. Just when I finally thought I'd found another sane person in this asylum… Seriously, is everyone here but Rivalz and I a complete degenerate?


"Or..." Milly's gaze swept past the redhead and bore into Kallen.


I have a bad feeling about this, Kallen thought as her stomach knotted in sudden anxiety. Dammit, shut up Milly! Just stay quiet… Please just keep your damned trap shut…


"The favor of a proper lady would be perfect for the gallant winner of our knight-mare-ley competition, eh?" To Kallen's horror, Milly's finger lanced out from her perch like a thrown spear, all but dripping with evil energy. "Kallen, my dear, would you lend me and the Vice President a hand in stoking a fire in the heart of all of Ashford in the Major's honor?"


From all around Kallen lecherous gazes swept over her as her fellow students openly appraised Milly's choice. For her part, Kallen bristled defiantly, glaring back at the blonde gorgon. No, she growled silently, I won't be a pawn in your idiotic game. I refuse to contaminate myself with more Britannian filth just to soothe whatever is making you so scared. Fight your own battles, you bitch!


The crowd disagreed. Even as she raged internally, Kallen felt the invisible pressure mounting all around her. It started out quietly, a soft chant from somewhere off to her left. It quickly rose in volume as the crowd around her took up the cry. Kallen tried to drown it out, tried to force her jaw to unclench so she could curse them all into silence, tell Milly to fuck off and be the prize if she was so enamored with the idea… But the swelling chant stifled any protest she might've made.


"Of course," Milly added from the stage, Lelouch stoically silent next to her, "I would make voluntary participation worthwhile. Don't ever let it be said that an Ashford isn't good to their friends. Someone who assists in such a manner deserves a spot on the student council–"


And the guarantee to be used as a prize at all events to come? To join the President's collection of pet chew toys? Pass.


"–and a day in my family's library would not be amiss. Knowledge is power, after all!"


"Kal-len! Kal-len! Kal-len!" the room shouted eagerly, driven to a fever pitch by the promise of a second prize. Jealous and longing gazes swept over her, pinning her in place. To her horror, Kallen couldn't get her mouth to cooperate, couldn't scream out her objections. She was pinned against a wall again, and they were circling around her.


Please… No… Not… Not again…


"No," Kallen whispered, her jaw finally coming unstuck, but it was far too little, far too late.


The crowd pushed her forward and Kallen found herself staggering up the concrete steps of the massive bleachers, up onto the stage. She turned and saw the crowd ranged out in the gymnasium below her, like a multitude mobbing around an altar or a ravenstone, eager to see the chosen victim sacrificed in their ritual.


Milly, the high priestess of the rite, grabbed her and Lelouch's hands, lifting them into the air. Kallen couldn't muster any resistance, paralyzed by the sea of hungry eyes and gaping mouths spread out before her.


If she pushes me off, down into the crowd… The nonsensical thought blazed through Kallen's panicked mind, they'll tear me to pieces… They know I don't belong… They know!


"Whoever manages to earn the top spot in the simulators wins their choice of date between the most eligible boy and girl currently enrolled at the Academy, based on my network of informers!" Milly turned to her, cornflower-blue eyes dancing with sickening mirth over her smile, surprisingly ghoulish at less than a foot away. "Either Lelouch Lamperouge, or Kallen Stadtfeld, pick your poison!"


It took everything Kallen had, every scrap of self-control and every bit of discipline Tanya had hammered into her to not lash out, to not hook her hands into claws and rip the arrogant smirk off Milly's face, inch by bloody inch. It took even more of her strength to not look at the smiling students who surrounded her and see four equally amorous eyes leering out of long-dead faces.


Remember the mission. Anything for the Cause, Kallen told herself, her internal monologue unconsciously adapting her best friend's mannerisms as it held the rising strain at bay. You're not that same girl, scared and angry, trapped up against a wall. You're not just lashing out. You are a professional on a mission. Control yourself.


Remembering Tanya's long-ago advice, Kallen forced herself to focus on her breathing, ignoring everything else. She'd lasted among all the countless insults and indignancies of her position before, she wouldn't let this farce break her now.


I'm stronger than this, Kallen thought, pulling her resolve around herself like armor. I'm stronger than her.


So resolved, Kallen turned her attention away from the queued up students below her and turned her attention to her fellow victim in Milly's schemes. For his part, Lelouch seemed engrossed in a conversation with the President. Even though they were less than a meter away, Kallen couldn't hear their murmuring voices over the crowd's dull roar.


Well, at least he isn't looking at me like a piece of meat, Kallen noticed. In fact, he doesn't look at all happy, and I can guess why. Some idiot might call him a Prince Lelouch imposter in front of Pitt, and then we'll all have to attend another assembly where they'll wheel him to death for lese majeste.


Not that he was the only Lelouch attending Ashford. The three boys she knew by that name were discreetly trying to escape out the gymnasium's backdoor. Kallen noticed one of the boys exiting a simulator with an L as his first initial reflexively cringe away from Major Pitt before steeling himself to shake the officer's hand; another Lelouch, then.


Suddenly, the Lelouch up on the stage with her looked up from his conversation with Milly and caught her eye. It was all she could do to not flinch away from him just like the boy down below recoiling from Major Pitt. Thankfully, he quickly returned to his conversation with Milly, leaving Kallen now irritated with herself as well as with everybody else in the room.


It was strange, she thought as he descended from the stage to join the line, now much the enigmatic Vice-President still disturbed her. Kallen had no trouble remembering the unguarded look into his eyes last Christmas, when his mask had slipped, just for a moment. That he was some kind of crazy she had no doubt; what made his brand of crazy so frightening was how good he was at concealing it. Without that look, she'd have been like everyone else; convinced he was a lazy genius wasting his time and talent.


But it seemed like Lelouch had evaded everybody else's notice for another day. He descended from his simulator and, after trading a few amiable words and a handshake with Major Pitt, made his escape, disappearing into the crowd of spectators. Kallen checked the scoreboard; Lelouch Lamperouge had somehow achieved a perfectly average score, his time and number of kills the exact mean of the student body so far.


"Oh, look," Milly chirped beside her, finally relinquishing her hand. Kallen discreetly tried to wipe the memory of the other girl's hand off on her skirt, but the memory of the pressure remained. "Looks like it's your turn now, Kallen!" This time, the blonde's encouraging smile looked a bit less forced. Kallen didn't return it. "Make sure you put a good show on for me, okay? Perhaps you can even have a date with Lulu~"


By the time she had made her way down the stairs, Kallen had worked out her plan. Judging by the scoreboard, her fellow students were lasting just under five minutes on average and generally managed to destroy only one or two targets in the simulation. So, she'd do likewise. As soon as she destroyed her second target, she'd feign exhaustion and bailout, turning in an entirely unremarkable score.


I just need to think of this as another infiltration mission, Kallen told herself. All I need to do is hold it together, and I'll have a juicy report to hand in to Tanya and Big Bro. And then I can tape a picture of Milly to the punching bag back at the Manor and work some of my stress out on it!


"Alright, my lady," said the sergeant manning the small desk in front of the simulators, his rough, lower-class voice rumbling as he copied the information from her ID card into some form on his computer, "you're up next. Go ahead and get in number eleven. As soon as you sit down and grab the sticks, the simulation will start."


"Got it," Kallen replied, nodding to the soldier before making her way over to the vacant simulator pod.


Of course it would be number eleven! Kallen sneered and forced her apprehension at the bad omen down. Stick with the plan, Kozuki. Keep your hands steady and your mind focused. Just pretend you're Tanya; you'll get through this just fine.


Just remember the plan, Kallen, she told herself again as the seat began to roll forwards, retracting into the Simulator. I don't need to do much; it's not like the top scorer was that impressive.


Five kills is the best Ashford Academy can offer up? Kallen scoffed, trying to imagine Tanya's reaction to such a poor showing, So much for noble supremacy.


I'll just kill a Knightmare or two, run around for a few minutes, let myself die, and then pretend to be disappointed when I step out of the simulator. She nodded to herself, firming her resolve. I probably won't even need to take a dive or whatever – I've never been in a Knightmare before!


Kallen took a deep breath, trying to reassure herself as the box began to close behind her. Her breath came uncomfortably rough, catching in her throat as the lock clicked shut. The din of students faded, overtaken by the electric humming of the machine.



Remember what's at stake, Kallen. Anything for the Cause.


Then, Kallen was alone in the darkness of the simulator, with only the thought of the Cause to sustain her in the box she found herself trapped inside. Her breath hitched as the darkness pulsed, pressing on her unbearably.


The large screen in front of her suddenly flickered to life, the darkness fleeing as the seal of the Imperial Britannian Army Knightmare Corps seared into her retinas. As she blinked her suddenly tearing eyes, the loathsome seal disappeared, replaced by a message in dull blue flashing across a light gray background.


[Loading Simulation…]


Anything for the Cause.


Almost without thinking, her hands slid into the primary control interfaces as they rose to her from the sides of the pod. Various buttons and levers dotted the rest of the cockpit, their purpose lost on Kallen.


Blinding light filled her simulator, and her eyes squeezed shut on reflex. A moment later and a view spanning a hundred and eighty degrees of coverage sprang up before her, banishing the darkness under the harsh glare of its artificial light. She lowered her arms back to the controls, feeling vaguely ridiculous and even more on edge.


Looking around with her screens, Kallen found herself in a bare-bones urban environment, empty but for "her". Looking down, she saw a large rifle waiting, cradled in "her" four fingered purple hands.


Disturbingly, Kallen felt entirely at ease in the simulated Knightmare. It should've been a waking nightmare, sitting high above a city's streets in one of the machines that had gutted the Japanese defenses. Instead, Kallen found herself marveling at how quickly the simulated Frame responded to her motions, one hand flexing up at the mere twitch of her fingers.


With every action, every minute movement, the barrier between Kallen and the Knightmare seemed to fade further away. It was as if she was steadily becoming the Sutherland, and with it, finally being the instrument of Britannian dominion and imperialism her father had always intended her to be, despite all his circumlocutions and claims to the contrary.


You should be at ease sitting atop your knightly steed, a corner of Kallen's mind said. This was what you were born and bred for. This, just as much as the Barony of New Leicester, is your birthright. When you were a child, you could believe in fairy tales, like your Japanese identity. It's time to grow up, to put aside childish things, time to embrace your blood.


What a fine young Britannian flower you're becoming.


"No," Kallen growled under her breath as she took her first smooth step in the simulation, willing the treacherous little voice in her head to shut up. Walking in the simulation felt so natural and easy; quieting the voice that sounded so much like her stepmother was all but impossible.


No, this isn't me! Kallen yelled back in response to the intruding voice worming its way through her mind, I'm not Britannian, not where it counts! Kallen Stadtfeld doesn't exist! Only Kozuki Kallen is real!


She breathed out, forcing her jaw to unclench


That's right… That's right, I'm Kozuki Kallen. I'm Japanese. I'm just playing a role right now, she reassured herself. I just need to remember to stick to the plan and it'll all be fine.


[Adequate movement and coordination confirmed] A cool mechanical voice spoke in time with the words that suddenly flashed in the center of her screen.


Kallen yelped in surprise, before realizing she'd continued moving forwards in the simulation. Presumably her waffling around had satisfied some programmed threshold, confirming that she knew the basics of Knightmare operation.


[Skipping Introductory Tutorial]


[Advancing To Combat Scenario #4]


[Good Luck, Devicer]


Kallen blinked, and then–


–Crumbling highrise buildings boxed her in as the setting sun illuminated the narrow alleyway she found herself in. The ground was covered in filth – broken beer bottles, faded bloodstains – just another alleyway in another ghetto. A Knightmare rounded the corner ahead of her, an ugly froglike thing that Kallen recognized as a Gun-ru, the standard Chinese model. With a start, Kallen realized that it was charging right at her and–


–Up against a wall, a tiny knife is all that stands between her and the four men surrounding her. "I'm no damned Britannian!" Kallen cries, trying for anger and displaying naked desperation instead. "I'm Japanese! Kozuki Naoto's my big bro, so don't you mess with me!"


The rifle snapped up, simulated thunder barking a staccato beat as 30mm gauss rounds lashed out, the gigantic rifle kicking back against her shoulder.


The boxy mech, clumsy on its fragile third leg, reeled under the impacts, her shots drilling deep into its cheap, substandard simulated armor and tearing the Gun-ru's central hull apart in a withering barrage.


And then it was over. The echoing reports of her gunfire rang out across the empty imitation cityscape. The shredded hulk of her first kill teetered over and crashed to the ground, a surprisingly lifelike simulation of a lifeless hulk.



A moment of staring at the smoking Knightmare later, Kallen's mind finally caught up with her.


"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Kallen cursed as she tried to get her breathing back under control. Her knuckles were white with pressure as they squeezed down on her gauntlet-like controls, heart hammering in her chest as her adrenaline surged.


"Just calm down… Calm down, and stick to the fucking plan," she said, barely remembering to use Britannian in the likely recorded simulator, even as her mind fumbled for what that plan had been. "I just… I just need to-"


The building in front of her exploded.


She ducked, feeling something roar past her overhead, hurling herself behind the skimpy cover of a parked truck as-


The sound of the bombs thunder up from below her, making the pavement under her feet shake with the impact. The two men at the station's mouth are knocked halfway off their feet and they turn away from her, towards the staircase behind them. From the corner of her eyes she sees Tanya give the signal and suddenly she's running and-


She surged forward, scrambling from the truck and scanning for a better hiding spot or for her enemies as she tried to get a handle on her surroundings.


A distant part of her mind remembered her Knightmare's controls, which had seemed so complex yet intuitive at the time. She remembered one option in particular, and her fingers danced across the buttons she needed, effortlessly directing her steed even as she scrambled forwards.


Two smoke canisters nestled on the Sutherland's left pauldron popped, shrouding her form in a dense cloud of black smoke formulated to block infrared as well as visual detection. Now hidden from her unseen enemy, Kallen took a moment to pop her faceplate open to expose the factsphere and scanned the area with her sensory suite.


More shots slammed into the walls of the buildings around her, but with her smoke cloud reducing visibility, none got within two meters of her. The radar of the factsphere cut through the smoke, its report giving her a rough map of her surroundings. As expected, most of those surroundings were static and immobile, the simulated urban jungle and digitized vehicle window dressing reassuringly harmless.


The hazy silhouettes staggering through the gloom, on the other hand, were the furthest thing from safe. Even "seen" through a crude rendering on her instrument panel, they were obviously sweeping the area looking for her, looking for the enemy who had killed their squadmate.


She's back in the alley, the figures of the men looming over her. Lecherous grins shine on their faces as they grab her, pulling her knife away and pulling her down to the ground-


Kallen burst out of the smoke, her rifle up and spitting hate as she strafed hard around their flank, her landspinners kicking up a wave of sparks as she skidded across the cracked pavement.


The clunky Chinese mechs were too slow to respond, their scattered fire lagging far behind as her own rounds punched through their paltry armor.


She saw one of her shells rip through the central armor of an unlucky "frog", eviscerating the machine as it tore a hole between its "eyes", right through where the cockpit should have been-


-Where Tanya's bullet is supposed to hit the man but Tanya isn't there and Kallen is fighting alone. A shrill scream rips its way from the man's throat as her tiny three-inch blade finds his kidney, and gritting her teeth Kallen rips the blade sideways towards his spinal column, cursing as his lumbar muscles catch the dull blade and-


Kallen threw herself to the side as a burst of 20mm shells slashed overhead, quickly turning her headlong plunge into a mad dash by pivoting on the fingers of one hand, redirecting her momentum towards her assailants.


The Gun-Rus, lacking any melee weapons, frantically backpedaled but in the narrow road there was nowhere for them to go as Kallen stooped upon them.


The man screams as she runs at him, backpedaling frantically as he slashes the air with his knife, trying to keep her at bay. With a burst of speed, she is inside his guard, and with her free hand she first blocks his swing then forces his arm away. Before he can continue his retreat, she punches him in the nose with her knife-hand and feels the cartilage crumple under her knuckle. With a burbled scream the man falls to the ground, and she is upon him.


The nearest enemy tried to hold her at bay, both of its built-in machine guns and auto-cannons attempting to catch up with her speedy approach. The explosive shells lanced overhead and behind her, closer and closer as she neared but still far too slow to even threaten her.


Contemptuously, Kallen raised her rifle with one hand, a burst from the Knightmare-scaled coilgun silencing one of the Gun-ru's pauldron-mounted guns as her other hand, her real one, thumbed a switch on her console.


[Slash Harken Armed]


A solid Thump reverberated through the cockpit as a diamond-tipped blade slashed through the air at the end of a wire, burrowing deep into the hapless Gun-ru's leg.


Grinning, Kallen charged the trapped Knightmare, generations of conqueror ancestors howling for blood in her soul as her fingers clenched tightly inside her gauntlets, bearing down on the sticks that controlled her arms.


Steel shrieked as she met the crippled Chinese trash fist first, her iron hand ripping through layers of cheap armor and plunging into the beating heart of the dying Frame.


The man's open eyes stare up at Kallen from his ruined face, the tongue forced out from his crushed throat. They are close, close enough to be lovers, and Kallen can smell the stench of his rotting teeth as she looks into those eyes fixed on eternity and screams and screams and-


The remaining pair of Gun-rus rushed to aid their disemboweled friend, guns blazing as they desperately tried and failed to force her back. With her handhold on the guts of the other machine, Kallen heaved her hostage up from the pavement and threw her landspinners into gear, distantly hearing the sporadic thump of impact against her impromptu shield as she maneuvered backwards.


She returned fire from behind the relative safety of her improvised cover, rifle whining as she spat hypervelocity slugs at the last of the pathetic machines that dared to attack her, punching ugly holes in its fragile hide with impunity.


[Increasing Difficulty]


But there were more.


There were always more.


No matter how many of the endless waves of Gun-rus Kallen killed, more were always somehow waiting just around the corner. Autocannons and machine-guns pounded the streets all around her, the simulated city ripped asunder as a neverending tide of enemies harried her through the burning streets.


So she killed and killed and killed until-


[Ammunition Zero]


Click


Kallen's eyes flew wide at the flashing red symbol suddenly flaring to life in the corner of her screen, and she spat a mangled curse as she realized her assault rifle had run dry.


The last of her smoke popped from her shoulders, shrouding her in just enough darkness and haze to give her the cover she needed to fling her Sutherland into a hasty retreat down an alley.


Kallen paused there in the mouth of the alley, taking a moment to gasp for breath and to get her thoughts together, but her head was swimming in so much fear and adrenaline that it was difficult to stay still, even for a second. Her blood thundered in her ears, her heart pounded so hard it felt like it wanted to rip its way out of her chest, and her whole body was drenched in sweat.


"Fuck," she huffed, chest heaving with harsh breaths. "Fuck, fuck, fuck… I… I was supposed to…"


Scrambling through her memories, Kallen desperately tried to recall what her objective was, tried to claw together the scraps of the plan she'd started from into something workable, something beyond the next few seconds, but all she could find were twisted reminders of how she'd ended up here, in this alley.


The men smile at her and Kallen feels her skin crawl. "And I'll take one of your eyes, just for the taste," says the man with the knife as he saunters closer, his comrades pinning her arms behind her shoulders, "but I'll let you keep the other so you can see just what we're gonna do to your pretty little body…"


"Dammit!" She roared, punching the console and suddenly remembering that this was all a simulation, a game. She'd forgotten that; she'd forgotten that she wasn't back in the alley, not really…



I should stop, she thought, but it was hard to hear her own voice over her jangling nerves. I was supposed to stop. I can still… stop…


Blinking the sweat from her eyes, Kallen gazed critically down at her rifle and her shield. The Gun-ru was mangled scrap barely held together by ragged mechanical sinew and her rifle was totally spent. She discarded the now-useless tools with a sudden spike of disappointed anger, feeling ever more frustrated by her lack of options. She couldn't just fight with her hands! She wasn't Tanya!


But I was supposed to stop, she reminded herself. I… I can't remember the plan, but… but I was supposed to give up… Right?


Distant gunfire echoed in the ghostly city. All around her, gray and abandoned buildings bloomed to sudden life as explosions shredded them from within, inching nearer to her temporary sanctuary with each passing second. Every breath she wasted in deliberation saw the walls of flame and dust advance ever closer.


I've done enough, Kallen swallowed, her dry throat working to swallow the syrupy, choking saliva. I should just let myself die, right?


Really, that's all the Elevens are good for, left to their own devices: they run, they hide, and they die like the worthless dogs they are. They should thank us for taking them in hand!


Kallen's teeth clenched down, her jaw aching from the grinding pressure as her hands throttled the plastic sticks, her pride stoked to a boiling, bloody-minded froth. Dogs, were they? She'd show him… She'd show them all…


A tenement building next to her exploded, the roof slumping in with palpable exhaustion.



Her radar swarmed with signals, all clustered around her.


There are at least ten of them, and Naoto is standing alone between them and eleven year old Kallen. Her brother is always in fights, but this is different. Instead of the lone hoodlum or two or three hooligans picking a fight with the halfbreed or his helpless little sister, a whole gang of them are there, standing in a line across the road. Kallen chances a look behind her; a cul-de-sac. There is no escape that way. The only way out, is through.


Something in her snapped.


[Chaos Mine Armed]


Kallen flew out of the alley, dancing on her landspinners as she quickly fired and withdrew her slash harkens, spinning her in a twisting, erratic pattern through the throng of clumsy, malformed troglodytes waiting for her out in the street.


The army of Gun-rus surged around her, aiming their guns and grabbing for her with their manipulators and-


The sky exploded.


White hot fragments of near-molten shrapnel ripped through the compacted horde, scything through the first ranks in a scream of shearing metal as the always-volatile Sakuradite drives cooked off in a series of sympathetic detonations.


Her hands dipped down to the holsters at her hips as she hurled herself into the panicking throng of shit-eating cowards who thought they'd cornered her and-


[Strike Mace Armed]


Kallen lashed out, a club of super heavy, durable, metal slamming down on the neckless head of the first Gun-ru in her path, smashing the steel cranium that might as well have been eggshell with ease and pulping the pilot within-


The pipe, heavy and rusted, jolts against her hands as she brings it down again and again and again, sending shocks of impact into her arms until her fingers grow too numb and the pipe flies from them, disappearing into the gloom.


She laughed with the childlike joy of murder, smashing through the horde absent of any hint of finesse or grace, reveling in the brutality of the slaughter. She killed, and she killed, and she killed, and nothing satisfied her; every stick of fuel was only further kindling, sending the fires of heaven scorching through her soul as she killed again and again.


When her clubs snapped, the ultra-durable composite finding its limits, Kallen resorted to her fists. When her fists broke, useless dented steel joints hanging from cables like ripped tendons, she lashed out with her slash harkens. When her landspinners broke, she charged at the pitiful bastards who tried to retreat, hounding them down and dragging them to asphalt with her, where their awkward tripod legs and weak clawed manipulators had no hope of holding her at bay.



Kallen howled, she screamed, she even sung in a moment of lunacy, and through it all her soul rose in exultation.

Snarling, Kallen uses her teeth instead, biting and gouging and clawing and wondering where Naoto is, where her Big Brother is, and why he isn't here to help her when she is alone and there are so, so many…


And then, the darkness returned. For a moment, Kallen continued to jerk and pull at the control sticks, trying to find more enemies, trying to find fresh blood. Slowly, awareness flooded back in, and she let go of the sweat-slick controls, flinching away as if they had burnt her.


The whole cockpit stunk of sweat and copper, she realized, and her mouth tasted like blood. Her clothes stuck uncomfortably to her skin. Suddenly, Kallen felt exhausted, every muscle taxed and worn down to quivering jelly. She sucked down greedy breaths, trying to calm herself as tiny shuddering tremors racked her body. Something had gone wrong, but she couldn't remember what; all she could focus on was the need to inflict further violence coming from deep within.


As the door to Simulator Pod #11 opened, the lights of the gymnasium flooded into the tiny space, wrenching Kallen back into the present. Dimly, through the blood hammering in her ears, Kallen could hear the sounds of cheering and applause. To her faint horror, she could hear the same chant that had driven her up the steps of the stage mixed into those cheers.


"Kal-len! Kal-len! Kal-len!"


She frowned; before, the chant had been strident and demanding, a hungry flail of public opinion and pressure forcing her onwards. Now, as she unlatched the harness holding her in the simulator's throne, the tone was undeniably celebratory.


As Kallen staggered to her feet and down the stairs, the chant swelled in volume before collapsing into an incoherent shriek of celebration, so loud it almost battered her down to her feet. She blinked mutely at the horde of blurry faces through eyes teary from sweat.


Are… Are they all cheering for me? Kallen's thoughts came slowly and somehow felt distant as if she'd snuck into her big bro's secret stash of moonshine again. Why…? What'd I do?


Numbly, she looked up at the screen standing in front of the line of simulators as Major Pitt thumped her shoulder in congratulation. There on the screen were her initials, and next to them were…


Oh… So that's why they're cheering.


A wave of nausea struck Kallen like a fist and she swayed on her feet, her eyes glued to the screen. The average Ashford student had 'killed' between two to three enemies and had lasted five minutes. To her shock, Kallen found that somehow fifty minutes had passed while she was in that tiny sweat-stinking box and that she'd killed no fewer than thirty-seven enemies in that simulated hell.


Oh… Fuck. Fuck, fuck… Fuck. I… I fucked up. I fucked up bad.


She had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. She had failed in every way that mattered.


Because every disaster, no matter how dire, can always take a turn for the worse, that was when Milly suddenly bloomed into existence, springing into Kallen's peripheral vision next to the unremarkable features of Major Pitt. Slowly, Kallen turned from the screen towards her mismatched tormentors.


Kallen frowned; Milly's lips were moving, but she couldn't hear what the harridan was saying. "Sagh-" she stopped, realizing that her mouth was full of blood seeping from her cut lip. Instinctively, she turned and spat the mouthful of blood onto the smooth polished boards of the Ashford Academy Gymnasium, idly wiping at her mouth with her arm as she turned back towards Milly.


Shit, Kallen thought vaguely, I smeared blood all over my blazer. That's gonna be a bitch to get out.


She blinked, realizing she'd said her last sentence out loud, before shrugging and continuing on. She was having a very difficult time caring about anything at all at the moment. "Sorry Milly, I didn't hear you. What was that you just said?"


"Oh! Umm," Milly tore herself away from the bloody smear on the floor, her eyes strangely wide to Kallen and her cheer even more obviously forced than before. Kallen idly wondered if the Academy's president had ever seen blood before. "Well, I just wanted to congratulate you on winning your date with Lulu! Aren't you happy? You've got a guaranteed dinner date locked in with the Academy's most eligible bachelor."


Kallen goggled at the other woman, trying to figure out what planet she'd dropped down from. She blinked, and the space behind her eyes was full of men and machines, all the same, and all trying to pull her down. She blinked again and Milly was still there, clearly waiting for an answer. Major Pitt lurked behind her, a man who was somehow just as gray as the uniform he wore in Kallen's eyes.


"Fuck the date," Kallen growled without thinking, "and fuck you too, Ashford. I'm fucking sick of you treating me like a goddamn puppet for your petty fucking games. I did this for me, so everyone else can fuck right off!"


For a timeless moment, all Kallen could feel was a twisting satisfaction as Milly stumbled back, one hand half raised as if she was trying to protect herself or perhaps to reach out to Kallen. Under her makeup, her face had gone bloodlessly white and her eyes were wide and hurt.


Then, someone muttered a surprised curse, and Kallen abruptly realized that the gymnasium had fallen completely silent and that every eye in attendance was fixed on her. Even the blind girl in the wheelchair she'd noticed earlier was oriented her way. Worst of all was the speculative gleam in Major Pitt's unremarkable brown eyes; he wasn't looking at anybody, least of all the Ashford heiress standing next to him. Instead, he was looking at her with undisguised interest.


Suddenly, it was all too much. Kallen turned on her heel and half stumbled, half ran out of the hauntingly silent gymnasium, away from the stricken Milly Ashford and away from the horribly intrigued eyes of the Britannian Major. She ran into the first bathroom she could find, slamming the stall door shut behind her and pulling her legs up into her chest as the stress of the afternoon finally overwhelmed her completely.


When Kallen's tremors finally released her and when she'd cleaned her face and fixed her makeup and hair, Major Pitt was leaning against the wall outside the door to the Ladies' Room, clearly waiting for her.


"I think," the recruiting officer began, "that it's time we had a talk about your future career in the Knightmare Corps, Lady Stadtfeld."


---------


MAY 4, 2016 ATB
ASHFORD ACADEMY, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
1810


Come on… Pick up… Pick up, dammit!


Anxiously, Kallen checked her watch; it would be… four in the morning in New Leicester, or three in the morning in the imperial capital of Pendragon.


Come on… Wake up… Please wake up…


Finally, after a seemingly endless series of rings, the line picked up. Kallen's heart leapt into her throat, but she forced herself to continue breathing slowly and steadily.


I need to stay calm, she told herself. If I sound calm and deliberate, he'll take me seriously. He'll have to!


"Kallen…?" A groggy voice asked, and Kallen could almost imagine the man at the other end checking his bedside clock. "Are you alright…? It's… a bit early for a social call… Did you forget your time zones?"


"No!" Kallen snapped, before forcing herself to calm down and lower her voice, very aware that Major Pitt was, in all likelihood, still on the other side of the closed door at the end of the room. He'd been all but attached to her for the last two hours, badgering her about the many benefits of the ROTC program and how far she could go in the Knightmare Corps. He'd only grudgingly allowed her out of his sight to make her phone call.


I wonder if he thinks I'll try to escape out the window? I can't deny that the thought's crossed my mind…


"No," she repeated, "I… I know it's pretty early for a call… But…"


"But it couldn't wait," the voice sighed, its owner clearly resigned to the fact that further sleep wasn't in the cards. "Alright Kallen, I'll be right with you. Let this old man get some coffee on board, and then we can talk about the situation."


"Thanks," Kallen sighed into the phone, annoyed by how she already felt more at ease with the situation after talking with the man on the other end of the line. "Sorry to wake you up so early, Dad."


Ten minutes later, Alvin Stadtfeld, Baron of New Leicester and Head of House Stadtfeld, came back on the line.


"Alright, I'm feeling marginally awake now." The tired drawl hadn't quite left his voice, but Kallen could hear her father's typically amiable tones slowly reasserting themselves as the caffeine began to kick in. "So, Kallen, my beloved daughter: What's gone so wrong that you couldn't let these old bones sleep for another four hours, especially after months without a single text?"


"Umm… Yeah," Kallen shifted uneasily, put on the spot from across the Pacific Ocean by her father's easily envisioned gimlet eye. A moment later, she scowled as she realized what she was doing. I don't owe him a thing after he abandoned Naoto and me for years! "Well, about that… It's kind of a long story…"


"And yet, you, of all people, felt it necessary to wake me up at three in the morning. Normally, getting you to talk to me is like pulling teeth," her father rejoined, and Kallen could just hear the wry smile on his lips, "which means this is important, and you know it's important. So, come on, tell me. How can your father help you, Kallen?"


It would almost be easier if he was just open about being an asshole, she reflected. It's when he actually sounds like he cares, actually seems like he cares, that it's harder to deal with him.


In a moment of reflection, Kallen remembered how her best friend had never met her own father, and in fact didn't even know who her own father was because he had been a random Britannian bastard just looking for a quick fuck with a broken condom. Her gut twisted, and suddenly Kallen felt ashamed.


Tanya actually has an asshole father, Kallen reminded herself. I don't have any room to complain. At least Dad tried, kinda. I mean, Naoto likes him, so… Fine, fine. Dammit.


"Alright," Kallen began, cramming her baggage to the back of her mind; it could wait until after she no longer had to worry about Major Pitt forcing her into the Army. "So, for some reason, an Army recruiter came to my school today and kinda forced everyone to try out the Knightmare Simulator. And, umm… I apparently did good. Really good. And now he's trying to force me to join the ROTC program that he just started today here on campus."


"...So, let me get this straight," Alvin Stadtfeld sighed, taking a long sip of coffee before continuing. "Your school, a private school that does not take any imperial subsidies and offers no ROTC program, which I know because I checked before enrolling you there, has suddenly been arm-twisted into starting up an ROTC program and now you're being badgered by some puffed up Major who won't leave you alone?"


"Y-yeah," Kallen confirmed, blinking with surprise at how hard her father's voice had grown as he recontextualized her problem. "I mean, there's a bit more to it. I think this might've been the Viceroy's idea? The recruiter, Major Pitt, read a speech he claimed came straight from the Prince that mentioned Ashford by name. Also, Milly – that's the president's granddaughter – looked really scared when people started refusing to get in the simulator."


"Hmm…" Over the line, her father hummed thoughtfully to himself. "Alright, now… What are your thoughts on the matter, Kallen?"


"About what?" She asked, before wincing slightly at how loud she'd been, casting an anxious glance at the sealed door. "About what," she repeated more quietly, "the stupid assembly? Or joining the Army?"


"Both, I suppose," her father said idly, his mild tone not giving her any clues about his own thoughts. "But… you wouldn't have called me if the situation wasn't urgent, would you now? So, let me rephrase myself. Do you want to join ROTC and presumably the Army, Kallen? And do you want my thoughts on the matter?"


Kallen quickly mulled the matter over. Do I even care about his opinion? He's just another Britannian aristocrat, only out to protect and boost his own personal status; he sure as shit doesn't care about us. Otherwise… Otherwise, he would have stayed.


But as soon as the thought passed through Kallen's head, she remembered all of the times Naoto, her big bro, had stepped up for their father. "Dad cares. It's why he came back, Kallen. It's… it's also why he had to leave. To keep us safe."


She clenched her free hand into a fist. Why can't I just hate him? It would make things so much easier…


"Yeah, sure, I guess," she said out loud, trying not to sound too interested. "What do you think about all of this?"


"Well," Alvin replied dryly, "I seem to remember hearing that Area Eleven is still experiencing some rather unfortunate domestic troubles, correct? Troubles bad enough to wipe out entire units of Knightmares, which are typically in short supply in occupation garrisons. I also know that Prince Clovis has many rivals amongst his royal siblings who would love to assume the Viceregal-Governorship in his wake."


"Yes, yes, court politics are always going on," Kallen interrupted impatiently, "but how does that lead to some pig in a uniform showing up at my school?"


"Well, why does a farmer eat his seed corn?" her father asked rhetorically. "It sounds to me like someone in the Area Administration, maybe His Highness himself, is getting anxious about his supply of devicers on hand and is trying to increase that supply via aggressive recruitment. If this is true, it also indicates that His Highness or his advisors aren't expecting many new devicers from the Homeland. This priority is seemingly high enough to justify some level of coercion to force even high-caliber schools that aren't financially beholden to accept on-campus recruiters."


"...Huh. That's…" Really interesting, something Tanya needs to know, "fascinating, I guess. If the powers that be are really desperate for devicers, then it's a good time to join up, right?"


"Well, there are some undeniable benefits," Alvin mused, sipping at his coffee again. "I can't fully endorse you joining the service as my sole heir, especially since you don't have a child – or if you do, I'm going to have words with Nathan – but there are benefits. If you serve as a devicer, you would accrue a knighthood in your own right, as well as a barony once I'm gone. Serving in the Army is an excellent path to power, military as well as social and political. Even economic.


"It would," he continued, "also help burnish up your own loyal image, Kallen. If one day someone examines your documentation and finds a discrepancy, and if someone questions our claim that Alicia is your mother, an honorable service record will help ameliorate any stain on your reputation."


"That's… probably true," Kallen admitted. "And if I'm in the service, I don't need to worry about marriage offers, huh? Since I can just say I'm married to my Knightmare or some other garbage."


"You could certainly say that," her father chuckled, before yawning, "but honestly, that's something you don't need to worry about, Kallen. I'll be able to keep all of the old bats in the attic for the next decade at least, and even if I didn't, Nathan would run interference for you. Besides," he chuckled again, "I know you'd probably knife me if I ever tried to force you into a wedding dress, Kallie."


"S-shut up!" Kallen growled into the phone, trying to ignore the deep pang of emotions she didn't want to think about at the mention of her childhood nickname, of the name her father had called her by before he'd abandoned her and Naoto and their mother in a neighborhood full of bullies and bastards. "Don't fucking call me that, Dad!"


"Alright, as you wish," he sighed tiredly, "anyway, those are my thoughts about the Army. It could benefit you in a number of ways, great and small."


"And it would benefit our house too, wouldn't it?" Kallen asked, unable to resist the small dig. "After all, that's what's important, right? Anything to make sure that the Stadtfeld name is free from any blemish."


"If the heir had a reputation strengthened by honorable military service, that would benefit House Stadtfeld," Alvin acknowledged, not bothering to deny it. "But, that's neither here nor there. I'm only slightly less interested in trying to force you into a marriage than I am in trying to force you into a uniform. What do you think, Kallen? Do you want to join the Army after you finish school?"


"I don't know," Kallen replied half-truthfully. "I haven't really thought about what I want to do after I graduate. That's still two years away and all. I haven't thought about the Army at all."


It could have some advantages, she acknowledged. Knightmare training could come in handy, along with learning how the Britannians communicate and think… And I guess I could learn to shoot just as well in the Army as I could at The School… but fighting for the Empire, in their uniform? Ugh!


"But either way," Kallen rallied, summoning her anger back with ease, "I'm not interested in being harassed into signing up! It's going to be my choice!"


"...Alright," her father replied after a moment, "so, what do you want me to do about this recruiter, this…?"


"Major Pitt," she supplied.


"Thank you," he said. "Now, what would you like me to do about this Major Pitt, Kallen? If you want, I can… lean on him, so to speak. Pull some strings back home and take pressure off you.."


"I… I guess that would help," Kallen admitted, suddenly unsure of what exactly she did want. What the hell was I expecting when I called him? That he'd just wave a magic wand or something and this would all go away? "I don't really know what I should do…"


"Do what you think is best for yourself, Kallen," Alvin said, a sort of tiredness entering his voice that sounded much heavier than his previous sleepiness. "Just make sure you can still live in your own skin afterward. And come back home safe, for your mother's sake if not for mine."


"I'll…" Kallen swallowed; the mention of her mother even from her father's mouth bringing a painful lump into her throat, "I'll try."


Both Naoto and I are in a war against the most powerful empire on the planet, she thought. What happens to Mom if we both die? The Bitch will just throw her out, at the very least. Tanya would probably take her in… She stuck up for her that one time… But that's if Tanya's still alive…


"I suppose that's all I can ask," Alvin sighed. "Well, you've heard my thoughts, Kallen. Whatever your choice, I'll support you." After a pause, he continued. "I love you, Kallen. You know that, right?"


"T-thanks for the advice, Dad," Kallen replied, gulping slightly as she realized she meant it sincerely. "I'll… I'll let you know what I choose to do."


"Don't be a stranger."


With a tap, Kallen ended the call and collapsed into one of the luxurious couches scattered around this parlor.


I hope Milly hasn't done anything weird on this one, she thought idly, letting herself go boneless as she breathed out the emotional turbulence speaking with her father always stirred up. I'm so definitely not in the mood for any of that shit. Not now, probably not ever.


With a weary sigh, Kallen brought her phone up and dialed another contact, this one listed under a false name with the initials TH.


The recipient picked up the phone immediately.


"Kallen. What's the situation?"


Kallen almost gasped as Tanya's cold, clear voice cut through the haze of confusion filling her head.


"Tanya," she began, speaking in Britannian just in case Major Pitt truly was at the door, ear pressed to the wood, "there was a recruitment event at Ashford today, and I couldn't get out of it. They put me in a KMF simulator and I, uhh, kinda freaked out but I still did really good. Too good. They want me to join ROTC and the Army. What do I do?"


"Someone's close enough to hear you, I take it, but you think that your line is clear enough to reach out for advice," Tanya said, immediately grasping the situation. "I understand. Are there any signs that they know anything about your other background?"


"No, they haven't been making any threats or anything, not yet at least." Kallen took a calming breath, trying to slow her nervous tongue. "That said, the recruiter's been giving me the soft sell for the last two hours, and back during the event, Milly looked really nervous when he started to frown. I get the feeling that if I don't say yes, they're going to try to make me."


"I understand," Tanya repeated. "In that case… Go for it."


"Wait, what?" Kallen blurted, shocked by the conversation's sudden turn. "You… You want me to agree?"


"I do," Tanya said smoothly, her tone clipped and precise. "Listen to me carefully, Kallen. I know you are more of a warrior than a spy by inclination. Despite this, you have performed admirably so far. Good work always earns more work, though; so, I am tasking you with a new mission. You will become a soldier; moreover, you will be the best soldier you can be. You will learn all that you can from the Britannians. You will be as Britannian as possible. You will be Cadet Kallen Stadtfeld.


"And then one day, when the time comes, you will come home to us, to your brother and I. You will become Kozuki Kallen once again. And you will come back with the expertise of a Britannian devicer, brimming with knowledge about our enemy. This will be a difficult mission; I'm asking much from you. But your credo is Anything for the Cause, and I am certain, Kallen, that you'll live up to it. You've never failed anything I've asked you to do before now. Do you accept this mission, Kallen?"


She felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff. She couldn't see the bottom. She desperately wanted to step back, to say that she wouldn't, couldn't do it, couldn't take the plunge.


But you know that you can, a treacherous, cruel voice said from inside her. Perhaps it was just her emotional strength failing her after a long, trying day, but Kallen couldn't help but listen to it. You know you can do it and nobody else can. Anything for the Cause. Duty is a mountain. There is nobody else who can pick up this mountain. This is your sacrifice. If you step back now, you have betrayed everything you've ever said about your duty, your dedication.


Your mistress has given you an order; a good soldier obeys her orders.


"Yes," Kallen said, her tongue like lead, "yes, I'll do it."


"Good." The clear voice was sharp-edged in its purity, free of any touch of regret or any second guesses. "Then you must cut off all contact with us. Give the Britannians no reason to suspect your loyalty. Delete my contact, and Ohgi's and Naoto's. If you must pass us a message, hand it to Rivalz and tell him to pass it on to Inoue.


"And…" Tanya's voice softened, "don't worry about your mother or your brother. I'll go to the Stadtfeld Mansion this very night with Naoto, and we'll bring her back with us. She won't be staying in Shinjuku; she'll be going someplace that's safe, far from the Britannians, far from your stepmother. I'll be sending Naoto out into the countryside too. You won't need to worry about them, Kallen, I promise."


"Will I need to worry about you?" The words were out of her mouth before she could think about them, but Kallen couldn't find it in herself to recall them. Was this really the last conversation she would have with her friend? Surely not.


"Anything for the Cause," Tanya replied. "If Naoto is going out of Shinjuku to assist Ohgi with our program outside of the Ghetto, someone needs to stay behind to maintain the chain of command. Just as you have your duty, so too do I have mine."


Of course that's what she would say. I don't know what else I expected.


"But," Tanya added, "I'll likely be busy with my leadership duties. I doubt I'll have much time for frontline work in the foreseeable future." For some reason, she sounded oddly wistful. "You don't need to worry about me, Kallen. Do your duty and I'll do mine; we will meet again."


"If you say so," Kallen replied. She chanced another look at the closed door; there were no signs of any eavesdroppers. Nevertheless, she dropped her voice down to a whisper and turned away from the door, tucking the phone up close to her mouth as she lowered her face into the pillows. Then, in Japanese, she bid her leader a farewell in the language of duty.


"Long live Japan."

---------


MAY 6, 2016 ATB
ASHFORD ACADEMY, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
0900


For the second time in a week, Kallen found herself standing up on a stage in front of the Ashford student body. This time, instead of joining Milly and Lelouch on the commentator's perch overlooking the gymnasium, she stood front and center on the school theater's stage, a line of six of her fellow students behind her. And, instead of facing the student body directly as she had before, this time Kallen was only facing Major Pitt.


Look on the bright side, Kallen thought sarcastically, at least they aren't looking at you with the same disgusting eyes as before. That's probably just the uniform, though; hell, that's a silver lining right there – I don't have to wear something designed by Milly Ashford any longer.


In place of the Ashford Academy creme blazer and navy blue miniskirt, Kallen and the other six members of the inaugural cohort of the Ashford ROTC program wore their newly issued formal uniforms. The five boys had uniform slacks while Kallen and the one other girl wore knee-length skirts, all in the same uniform gray of their uniform jackets, unadorned save for their shiny leather belts and the yellow stripes proclaiming their status as trainees.


The change in uniform was a vanishingly thin silver lining, though. Considering what Kallen was about to do, what she was about to swear… She'd almost be happy to wear anything Milly so chose if it meant that the last three days could somehow be undone, that her leader's final order could be recalled.


Almost.


At a subtle nod from Major Pitt, Kallen's right arm snapped up to a right angle, hand over her heart and elbow straight up. Her left arm was at her side, her garrison cap cradled at hip height. Just as she'd rehearsed for the last hour.


Her last hour as a civilian, free from the confines of His Majesty's Armed Forces. While she'd still be attending classes at Ashford Academy and sleeping in her bedroom on weeknights, her weekends and holidays belonged to the Army now. As did the next ten years of her life.


Until I take them back, Kallen reminded herself. This is all a ruse, all a deception. Don't forget that, Kallen. You aren't Britannian. You will never be Britannian, not where it matters. All for the Cause, anything for the Cause. Even this.


"Do you," Major Pitt began, "Lady Kallen Stadtfeld, swear your allegiance to His Imperial Majesty and to his Empire?"


"I, Kallen Stadtfeld, swear by almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to His Imperial Majesty Emperor Charles zi Britannia, and to his heirs, and to the Empire he rules." The words rolled off Kallen's tongue with a solemn gravitas heated by passionate ardor. They tasted like ashes.


"Do you," Major Pitt continued, "swear to defend his crown, his dignity, and his mandate against all his enemies?"


"I, Kallen Stadtfeld, swear by almighty God that I will, as in duty bound, zealously and faithfully defend His Imperial Majesty, his heirs, his crown and his dignity, and his mandate, against all his enemies." Kallen stared straight into Pitt's eyes, unable to blink or look away, trying her best to convey a fidelity with feet of clay to her new commanding officer, her new superior.


Never my leader. Never my lord. Never my master.


"Do you," Major Pitt asked, "swear to obey all orders of His Imperial Majesty, his heirs, and his generals and officers set over you?"


"I, Kallen Stadtfeld, swear by almighty God that I will obey any and all orders of His Imperial Majesty, his heirs, and his appointed generals and officers set over me, without objection or dissent. I pledge my life, my land, and my sacred honor to His Imperial Majesty, until such time as he sees fit to free me from this solemn bond."


As she publicly announced her loyalty with every intention of breaking her vows, Kallen extended her right arm up and out, until it was straight out in front of her, pointing above Pitt's head. Even though Britannian history claimed that they had driven Caesar and his legions from their shores, the Britannian Empire had still made the Roman Salute their own at some point.


"Then it is with pride that I, Major Phineas Pitt, accept your oath of loyalty on His Imperial Majesty's behalf," the officer intoned, raising his arm to mirror hers. "We shall exchange loyalty for fidelity, honor for honor, and blood for treachery. We name you Cadet Kallen Stadtfeld, and in recognition of your achievement and noble descent elevate you to Cadet Sergeant Kallen Stadtfeld. Long may you serve our Empire."


With that, and with the storm of applause from the audience, it was done. Kallen stepped back into line as the next cadet stepped forth to take the oath. There was no going back now. She had pledged herself to the service of the enemy.


She was a soldier of Britannia.

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 27: A Second Attempt


(Thank you to Aminta Defender, Sunny, Restestsest, KoreanWriter, Mitch H., Rakkis157, and MetalDragon for beta-reading and editing this chapter. Thank you in particular to MetalDragon for his substantial input. They were all a huge help with this chapter, and with helping me revamp Lelouch's first appearence in this fic in Chapter 22.)


(This chapter contains some mention of religion. Please do not take this as commentary on any real world faiths, please and thank you.)


MAY 4, 2016 ATB
ASHFORD ACADEMY, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
1625


That, Lelouch thought as the gymnasium's door swung shut behind Kallen Stadtfeld, sounds like it was a long time coming.


It was all he could do to force his typical mask of serenity into place in the aftermath of Kallen's riveting performance. The newly discovered natural Knightmare talent had been magnificent in her anger, ripping into Milly with all the rage of a wolf brought to bay. Watching Milly be taken to account for hauling them both up on stage had been immensely cathartic.


And frankly, she's lucky that Kallen just settled for a spot of public humiliation. After all, he mused, the spotlight has an unfortunate habit of illuminating secrets best left in the dark.


It took Milly less than a minute to regain her composure and laugh the whole incident off, declaring it a byproduct of adrenaline overdose, effectively wiping away Kallen's social transgression from the student body's guppy-like collective memory.


"After all," Milly goaded, "if the delicate Lady Stadtfeld can manage such an upset, then surely all you big strong boys can as well!"


Predictably and perhaps naturally, the collective male ego of half of his so-called peers rankled at being upstaged in their domain of war. The usual chest-beating had ensued as boys who had already had a try with the simulators lined up anew for a second chance at glory, all under the paternal gaze of Major Pitt.


Spoiled children, the lot of them, and idiots too, Lelouch thought disgustedly. All so eager to die for the sake of That Man, who wouldn't even blink as he sacrificed ten times their number on a whim. I doubt any of them have so much as smelled the aftermath of a minor skirmish, much less a battlefield.


Certainly, none of them had walked through killing fields days after the front had moved on. Nobody who had seen the rats scrambling to their feasts would ever be so eager to find "glory" ever again.


Finally, even that fresh wave of ardor dissipated, bringing the long assembly to a conclusion. Freed from the prying eyes of his classmates, Lelouch finally gave himself license to glare at Milly from across the gymnasium, letting the weight of his displeasure be known. There were some advantages to an education in royal etiquette – abbreviated as it had been.


His outrage wasn't lost on the target of his ire, who blushed shamefacedly and all but scampered out of the gymnasium, escaping out onto the Academy's verdant quad. Lelouch was not particularly worried; he knew where she would go, and what room he would find her in.


"Lelouch," Nunnally whispered, grabbing his hand before he could pursue the fleeing Milly. Lelouch started; he hadn't even heard her wheelchair roll up beside him. "Let it go. She must have had her reasons."


"She went too far," he said, not bothering to conceal his wrath with only his sister in earshot. "I can't let it go. Not this time."


Nunnally sighed in disappointment, and his anger recoiled. "Give her a chance to explain herself then, at the very least. She is our hostess. You must not forget that."


More than her disappointment, Nunnally's admonishment stung him to the quick. The last time he had forgotten his place, they had both been sent to die in a warzone for his impertinence. What had happened once could happen again; it would only take one misstep with the Ashfords for them to decide the risk of harboring them was too great and to cast the vi Britannias back out into the cold and unforgiving outside world.


"I will come with you," Nunnally declared.


Lelouch scowled. "I don't–"


"You are reckless and relentless, Big Brother," Nunnally easily rolled over his half-spoken protest. "Your mind latches onto ideas and refuses to let them go. You do not know when to stop and you have never learned that you do not need to achieve victory to avoid losing."


"Draws are irritating," Lelouch grumbled, but the anger was already withdrawing, allowing him to breathe easily once more. Somehow, whenever they squabbled, Nunnally always won.


He could never deny her anything she wanted. Except, of course, the one thing that she truly wants.


He sighed and began walking towards the gymnasium's exit, Nunnally easily keeping by his side in her chair. This was, he had to admit, her fight as well. There was no point trying to keep her out of it now. Besides, she had been just as threatened by Milly's foolhardy antics as he had; she had every right to claim her pound of flesh, should she so choose. "Very well."


"I happen to like draws," his darling sister said cheerfully as they left the gym, still lined with the simulator pods, behind them.


"Of course you do," he said indulgently, shaking his head.


She has always lacked the killer instinct. It's for the best.


"I think it's quite balanced," Nunnally insisted, somehow just as aware of his thoughts as always. "Both sides survive and work together to reach a mutually agreeable solution."


He bit down on his sarcastic rebuke. She could afford to be happy in her innocence. They were not at court, where such idealism brought only ruin and was harshly punished at every turn.


What would they do to you, Nunnally? I can never let it happen. Never. He felt his anger returning and forced himself to focus on his sister's chatter instead.


"It's like two birds building a nest!" She said by way of explanation, "they both need to help out or it doesn't work for either of them!"


"It is fortunate," he jibed, entirely unable to stop himself, "that birds don't go to war."


"Lelouch!" The swat on his wrist was practically avian in its insubstantiality, in its frailty.


She is so weak, and so horribly, horribly fragile…


"Sorry, sorry," he begged her forgiveness with a laugh, "but were a bird to betray its mate, then--"


"Lelouch!" Nunnally huffed and accelerated her motorized wheelchair. "You are far too young to be a grouchy old man. They're birds! They're cute. And have beautiful songs. And they do this most wonderful mating dance…"


Just like Milly, flamboyantly vibrant and dancing just out of the reach of her many suitors and admirers. Maybe if she wasn't so distracted with her petty displays and distractions, he could be enjoying the day like the students sprawled out across the luxurious campus, enjoying the bright sun of a late spring afternoon. Maybe he could focus on his sister and her recitation of all that she knew about birds instead of wondering what sounds Milly would make upon a rack.


My mother was gentle and kind, for all that her enemies hated her. His thoughts were cold and distant, but far from clinically detached. And yet, for all that they hated her, they feared the Flash both for her battlefield skills and for her inventive punishments. Perhaps some of her old tricks would help Milly learn? After all, even apt students require correction. Perhaps her scheming would be aided by a taste of the courtly fear so endemic amongst the true nobility…


Lost in his dark thoughts, Lelouch was almost surprised to find himself in front of the pink-painted door of the Student Council's favorite conference room, on the first floor of the Clubhouse.


"Lelouch," Nunnally spoke up from beside him, tugging insistently at his jacket sleeve. "Hey Lelouch! She's inside already. Remember–"


The burnished handle of the conference room door beckoned. The bronze was warm under his hand. "I know. We owe the Ashfords a great deal."


A great deal indeed. Reuben had been good to them for years; his loyalty to their deceased mother stretching far beyond anything Lelouch found explicable. The only rationale Lelouch could assign to the old man's protection was his political aspirations. It was so easy to go from being in someone's debt to being under their thumb, and if Lelouch or Nunnally ascended the throne under the Ashford patriarch's supervision, all that his house had lost and more would be theirs once again.


But that was far off in the distance, a long shot at best. Here in the present, Milly was the anointed heir to the Ashford holdings, what remained of them, her disappointing parents passed over. Lelouch and Nunnally, on the other hand, were worse than useless to the Ashfords; they were active liabilities unless that long shot paid off.


And so it behooves me to remember my place. Not that such wisdom has ever truly held me back, oh no, perish the thought. Just like how Nunnally and I nearly perished because of my foolish pride.


"Good afternoon, Madame President."


"Lelouch..." From the head of the table, Milly smiled at them, a strained, bleached thing. "And Nunnally."


Nunnally's smile was a potent weapon indeed, Lelouch knew from long experience. It could be as sweet and treacherous as an angel's lie and just as barbed as any fishhook when her occasional fey moods took her. Now, that guileless expression was cutting as it smoothly transitioned from polite greeting to disappointed pity.


"Would you perhaps elucidate your thought process this afternoon?" Lelouch asked, his tone as polished as any of That Man's lickspittle courtiers. "I had not been informed that I would be called upon to fulfill my duties as the Vice President, nor that such duties included being paraded before one of His Majesty's glorious and honorable men."


"Does any man ever really know when duty will call?" Milly replied, aiming for breezy but shooting into tempestuous.


The tension in the room undermined her attempt to inject levity. Lelouch simply remained patiently silent, aware of his sister's presence at his arm.


After a moment, Milly tried again. "Look, it's been a stressful day for all of us. I'm not feeling particularly splendid at the moment myself. I don't suppose there's any chance we can pick this up later?"


That, Lelouch decided, was the wrong answer.


"Millicent Ashford," he ground out, manners held only by a thread and the light touch of fingers on his hand, "there is no time quite like the present to discuss just how little I care about how splendid or otherwise you are feeling. You damn near served Nunnally and me up to the Army today, on the inaugural Vi Britannia Day of all possible days! Do you understand what you put at risk with your ingenious plan?"


"Do you understand what I had at stake?" Milly shot back, her voice high and thrumming with tension. "Do you think Grandpa and I just let the Army show up on a whim? Absolutely not! They applied pressure, and we were given the choice of participation or investigation!"


Milly's voice had begun to creep upwards towards a high, almost hysterical note.


"That joyless prig of a major showed up just this morning in my grandfather's office," she continued, "with an entire truckload of simulators parked outside and a letter with the Viceregal-Governor's seal requesting we consider partnering with the Army to open a ROTC branch on campus! When Grandpa declined, Pitt threatened to investigate our lack of patriotism and determine whether Ashford Academy required new leadership!"


She's terrified, Lelouch realized, noticing how Milly's perfectly manicured hands had curled into tight white-knuckled balls as she had ranted. Pitt must have made quite the impression.


Fear is a disease, and Lelouch had to resist succumbing to Milly's anxiety as he imagined what sort of pressure Major Pitt must have brought to bear to convince Ruben Ashford. "And what," he quietly replied, "did he demand in exchange for withholding the investigation, Milly? I assume consideration was not the half of it."


"A branch of the ROTC opened on campus with dedicated grounds, which means the Equestrian Club can kiss their back pasture goodbye," Milly replied, ticking items off her fingers, "a seat for the leader of the ROTC in student government to incentivize participation and ensure that a properly patriotic voice is present, the enthusiastic participation of the student body in any recruitment events, and rubber-stamp approval for any would-be recruits who wish to leave school to join the Army directly.


"Oh, and of course, a small remuneratory gift for Major Pitt himself," Milly concluded with a bitter smile, "just to reward him for his excellent work, you understand."


"Quite," Lelouch replied mirthlessly, "the price of doing business. And in exchange for all of that? What did you secure from that masterfully negotiated transaction?"


"Don't be difficult, Lulu," Milly sighed, leaning back in her chair. The tension had almost disappeared from her voice, concealed by her usual honeyed tones. "Ashford Academy is still Ashford Academy, and will remain free of prying eyes."


"Splendid," Lelouch replied only half sarcastically, "our secret remains our own for another day. Assuming, of course, that Pitt did not recognize me when you hauled me up on stage, an action that seemingly completely undermines your goal to avoid the attention of the authorities."


He would have continued, had the fingers that rested lightly on his wrist not tightened and pulled, dragging Lelouch's attention away from the Ashford heiress.


"Peace, Big Brother." Nunnally's firm command was unsoftened by the sweet tones of the delivery. "Milly is our hostess and our friend, and I am sure she is doing her best in a stressful situation."


"As you say, Nunnally," the delicate fingers loosened on his wrist, and Lelouch turned back to Milly. "I apologize for my disrespect. My point stands, however; what possessed you to haul me up on stage, Milly? What were you thinking? Elevating my profile amongst the school body is one thing, but bringing me to the attention of an Army officer?"


Milly sagged in her chair. "That was not my intention, Lelouch, but… I saw the lack of enthusiasm, and I saw Pitt pulling out his notebook… I had promised him the enthusiastic participation of the students, and they were all shying away, all afraid of the possible humiliation… I had to find something to goad them on with." She gave him a strained smile. "You were the first thing I thought of, and I saw a way to get everybody's blood back up."


As Milly had recounted the pressure Major Pitt had applied, Lelouch had been temporarily distracted from his anger by the implications of the apparent new recruiting push by the forces garrisoning Area 11. The fact that, according to Milly, Pitt had shown up with a letter bearing the official seal of the Viceregal-Governor's Office all but guaranteed that this project, whatever it was, had the personal blessing of Clovis la Britannia.


The Student Council President's admission that she had pulled him out from the cover of the crowd onto the stage immediately brought that anger back to the surface.


"I repeat," Lelouch asked, voice heated, "what were you thinking, Milly?"


"I was thinking about all of the other students, Lelouch!" As always, Milly rose to the challenge. "You two might be the biggest secret I'm keeping, but you're far from the only! If Pitt brings his so-called 'suspicions' to the attention of the military police, they would be crawling all over the Academy in hours! How many of our students do you think are holding, Lulu? I can tell you if you'd like! And it's not just drugs! How many do you think have 'questionable literature' in their lockers?"


"Probably quite a few," Lelouch grudgingly conceded. "Nothing quite like flirting with danger to give a sheltered life meaning, I suppose."


"Indeed!" Milly nodded. "You should know, Mister Illicit Gambler! And once just one of those lockers is found, we will no longer have to worry about the military police because the IDSS will be on hand to investigate potential subversion! And I am sure that you know that, as soon as the witch-hunt begins, there will somehow be plenty of witches to find! Tell me, Lelouch, how long do you think the Academy you live at would remain open if half of the faculty were arrested for subversion and perverting the minds of the youth with unapproved doctrine?"


"If you had just told me before the assembly, we could have worked something out!" Lelouch retorted, temper barely restrained by the gentle fingers on his wrist. "If you had told me a display of enthusiasm was required, I would have primed Rivalz and Shirley and made sure they were at the head of the line. Even if they botched their own simulations, they would have had the sense not to publicly complain about it. And they don't have secrets in need of concealment."


"That would have worked," Milly admitted with a moderately ashamed smile. "But I was panicking, you know? I mean, how was I to know that one of the most incompetent pilots in the whole school would be the first up? And how was I to know that the students would be so fickle? They had the opportunity to pilot Knightmares! Why would I expect them to just wimp out like that?"


"Why would you go into any high-stakes engagement without a fallback plan?" Lelouch riposted. "Why would you stake your family's security and our lives on the reactions of a group of children?"


"Brother!" This time, Nunnally didn't bother veiling the iron with velvet. "You will remember your manners; this is a discussion between equals and friends, and I will not hear either of you raise your voices. Am I clear?"


Reluctantly, Lelouch nodded, noting Milly follow suit from the corner of his eye.


"Thank you. Now," Nunnally turned her smiling face, distinctly chillier than normal, back towards Milly. "Millicent Ashford, I am disappointed in you. I expected better. A lady does not panic. A lady always has a plan. Title or not, you are a lady, and I expected you to conduct yourself as such."


And most of the idiots at this school think Nunnally is the nice Lamperouge sibling, Lelouch thought sympathetically as Milly all but crumbled at the calm dismissal. Nunnally's only nice as long as you don't make her angry.


"I… I know," Milly said with a wince, "I just… panicked. I thought about soldiers ransacking the Academy, and all the students who I know would get arrested… and Grandpa losing everything he managed to save after Her Highness died…"


"And you thought about what you would be losing yourself, should Ashford Academy close," Nunnally continued, remorseless despite her dulcet tones. "After all, the Academy is just as much a refuge for you as it is from us. Why, it was only last week that your parents called about another potential suitor they had found, was it not? Surely you cannot put them off for much longer, Milly."


"Yes!" Milly half said, half screamed. "Yes! I don't want to be married off by my stupid parents, and the Academy's the only place where I have anything close to freedom! I don't want to see that get ruined because of some stupid political game the stupid prince is playing! I'm sorry! I'm sorry that I didn't warn you two, and I'm sorry that I pulled you up on stage, Lelouch!"


"Apology accepted," Lelouch cut in before his sister could speak, "by us both. Just please, Milly, do better next time."


I can't deny her anything, he thought wryly, but I can't deny that Nunnally definitely got some of That Man's cruelty as well as Mother's sweetness. His hypocrisy as well; she called me out for my anger at Milly, but she would hurt her far worse than I ever could.


"Regardless," he continued, striving for something like detachment, "what is done is done, and now we must adjust to recent developments. The most important one being the ticking time bomb in our midst."


"Bomb?" Milly stared at him, outwardly incredulous but with fear flickering in her eyes. "Lelouch, after the day I've had, I am far too drained for any more overly dramatic theatrics-"


"I fear that, unless we handle the matter carefully, that bomb will become all too literal," Lelouch said, cutting her off. "And frankly, Milly, I am surprised that you are so readily willing to dismiss this threat when you are the one who set her up to explode in all of our faces."


"Set her…?" Milly asked, frowning in confusion.


Then it hit her.


"Kallen?!" The Student Council President reeled back with a gasp. "I-I mean, I know what she did on stage was a bit…" a flicker of hurt tugged at the corner of her mask. "...harsh, but what on earth does that have to do with bombs, Lulu?"


"You truly do not know?" Lelouch raised a challenging brow. "She seems to have quite the clear opinion of your machinations. Given that we just discussed how many dangerous secrets of the student body you are privy to, I am amazed that you somehow failed to notice exactly what your newest toy was hiding when you decided to play with her. Quite the oversight, Milly."


"Machinations?!" Milly all but squawked in protest. "Lelouch, I'm not some kind of scheming puppet master who treats people like toys! Besides, she liked it!"


"...You feel that you do not treat people as if they were toys?" Asked Lelouch, leveling a deeply unimpressed glare at Ashford's Queen.


Something about the way he'd said that made Milly hesitate. "...N-no?"


"Then," Lelouch pressed inexorably on, "what do you believe prompted today's performance?"


"I told you," Milly exclaimed, "they forced my hand and I panicked! I already apologized for that!"


"Yes, for dragging me on stage, but what about Kallen? Not to mention," Lelouch pointed out, "that while this time you were pressured into acting, you have pulled the entire Academy into some impromptu game purely for your own amusement time and again. An outburst like that is not the product of a single squandered afternoon."


"I'm just trying to inject a little fun into people's lives, that's all!" Milly said, defending herself. "School life is so dreary and all the formals that young nobles have to attend are ridiculously stuffy! There's gotta be more to that to make young life worth living! The students need more! They need a little adventure!"


"...Adventure?" Lelouch quietly asked, a cold prickling sensation seeming to dribble over his skin. For a moment, he was almost eleven again, filthy and hungry and bone-weary. "You believe they need adventure to give their lives form?"


"Yes," Milly nodded definitively. "Adventure, Lelouch. Life, fun, parties, excitement. Teens who aren't sticks in the mud like you happen to love the shows I put on for them."


"Indeed…" Lelouch replied, "Kallen seems to have really enjoyed your approach to morale-boosting activities for the student body. I believe she made that quite clear today."


"I don't get it!" Milly groaned, flushing red at the memory of Kallen's adamant rejection. "She always enjoyed everything else I did! Why did she just suddenly flip out this time? And in front of everybody! Geez!"


Lelouch felt dread shiver down his spine in icy tendrils. "...Milly, what exactly do you mean by 'everything else'?"


"Oh, you know," Milly said offhandedly, "I saw Kallen was trying to break into the more popular circles, so I gave her a hand." A salacious grin slipped onto her lips. "Well… maybe a few. Even a prude like you has to admit she's filled out quite nicely!"


An almost spiritual exhaustion washed over Lelouch as he slowly blinked at Milly.


"....So," he finally replied once Milly's words had sunk in, "you have been giving Kallen the Shirley treatment for the past… what… Seven months now? Eight?" Lelouch rubbed at his forehead. "How are you still alive, Milly? No, do not bother answering. I am shocked it took this long for Stadtfeld to finally snap. Frankly, it is a miracle that no one has died yet."


"How was I supposed to know she wasn't having fun?" Milly plaintively asked, almost wailing. "I thought she was having fun! People have fun around me! I'm a fun person!"


"Clearly not according to Kallen," Lelouch replied acidly, "otherwise, I doubt she would have registered her opinion of you quite so publicly or vehemently."


"If she didn't like how I treated her, why didn't she just tell me? I thought I was doing exactly what she wanted! She was just trying to be popular and wanted my help, so I helped!" Milly sounded genuinely baffled. "I mean, I'm super approachable! I try to be super approachable!"


"And who," Lelouch asked, "would dare to tell the Academy's Queen that she had stepped out of line?"


Hurt flashed across Milly's face, gone as fast as it had appeared, but Lelouch had still caught the crack in her affable mask. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," she rebutted.


"Really, Milly?" Lelouch sighed. "You are the Student Council President, as well as the granddaughter of the Principal, who is also the Chairman of the Board of Regents for the school," he shook his head as he carefully explained the obvious. "The teachers never put up so much as a peep when you make an announcement – if every authority figure here bends the knee to you, why would any of the students assume you would listen or care about any objections they might voice?"


She may not be a bad person, Lelouch mused, but Milly is absolutely a spoiled brat. Perhaps this will give her a reason to grow, now that she understands that she can truly hurt people in her enthusiasm.


For a moment, he thought he'd gotten through.


The hurt blossomed into indignation.


"Wait a second! That's not something you just came up with!" Milly leaned forwards over the table, an accusing finger jabbing aggressively at Lelouch. "You knew! You knew people weren't talking to me because they were scared I'd tattle to Grandpa! Why didn't you tell me people weren't having fun?"


"Because I did not want to interrupt your game?" Lelouch raised a puzzled eyebrow. "Are you implying that I should have stepped in and advised you that most boys do not like being forced into mandatory cross-dressing and most girls do not, in fact, like having their breasts 'honked' from behind by way of greeting?"


"Yes!" A tinge of heat touched Milly's cheekbones, unshed tears pooling in her eyes. "Yes, Lulu, that would have been good to know! I thought that they were having fun! Why did you think I was doing it?"


"...Well, given the way you smile when you grab at people? It seemed obvious that you enjoyed flaunting your dominance over the student body via pseudo-sexual displays as well as demonstrations of authority. I mean, why else would you molest everyone like you owned them? Or constantly interrupt classes for impromptu events dominated by your vivacious personality?" Lelouch scanned the frowning Ashford's face, and then looked down into the very unimpressed glare Nunnally was shooting his way. "I take it that this was not, in fact, the case?"


"Why did you…" Milly shook her head, a frustrated growl slipping out. "Right! Right, right. Raised at the Imperial Court, and then thrown to the wolves. Of course you would see it all as dominance games."


What on Earth would all that have been, if not elaborate dominance games? Lelouch wondered, momentarily baffled.


"No, Lelouch, that was not what I was trying to do. In fact, that was the opposite of what I was trying to accomplish!" Milly huffed and looked away, but she couldn't hide the tremor in her voice. "I just… I just wanted people to have fun! Is that so wrong?"


Lelouch didn't know what to say to that. And now I feel like the bastard here. How did she manage that?


"Did you ever ask what they want?" Nunnally's calm voice sliced through the awkward silence.


"A-ask?" Milly turned back to give the younger girl a confused look. Lelouch carefully didn't notice the unshed tears at the corners of her eyes. "What are you talking about? I ask them all the time!"


"With all due respect, Milly, you do not," Nunnally carefully rebutted, her closed eyes somehow fixed unerringly on Milly's own. "You ask them with all the sincerity of a velvet-wrapped fist. When Milicent Ashford asks her subjects if they would like a party, everyone knows what the Queen of the Academy wants as her answer. Who would risk denying her?"


Milly opened her mouth to argue, but Nunnally continued relentlessly on, an unstoppable force in a frail body. "When you play your games, do you ever pause to consider what others truly want? Or do you only think about what you desire? If you do not ask people what they want and give them the latitude to answer honestly, you cannot truly claim to have given them a voice."


That comment, uttered in soft soprano, brought Milly up short. For a moment, neither Lelouch nor Milly could say anything, each silent for their own reasons.


She has truly grown, hasn't she? Lelouch mused, gazing at his sister with fresh eyes. Even if she speaks with the conviction of naivety, her eloquence befits the royal rank stolen from her. Nunnally… When did you begin to grow so fierce?


He sighed. I suppose even a bird with broken wings can develop sharp spurs… But please, save your spurs for a more deserving target. Even our best intentions can put us on the path to hell if we do not mind our step. Milly has not quite learned that as of yet.


Unfortunately ignorant of his silent plea, Nunnally was far from done.


"Now, Big Brother," Nunnally's sightless gaze turned back to him, "what was this about Kallen being a 'ticking time bomb'?"


Milly stiffened at the reminder. Lelouch felt dread pool in his gut.


Pointing this out felt like a win before, Lelouch thought as he silently apologized to Milly. Now, it just feels cruel.


But the last thing Milly needs right now is more coddling… And the potential threat is far from insignificant.


"Right… well…" Lelouch rolled the words around in his head, trying to figure out a way to phrase what had to be said in a manner that would let Milly down gently.


He failed.


"I have reason to believe that Kallen may be, perhaps, a Japanese insurgent."


Despite her closed lids, Lelouch imagined he could almost see the violet eyes he remembered from their youth, a perfect match to his own. In that imagined image, his darling little sister's gaze bore down upon him with the same fell intensity that his mother could bring to bear, easily winkling the truth out of him no matter how he tried to prevaricate his way to safety.


"Oh?" Nunnally cocked her head, furthering her almost owl-like impression as if she were able to pick him apart by sound alone. "And pray tell, Big Brother, why on Earth would you think that?"


"Detecting her nature was far from easy, and I was forced to draw upon many sources to reach that conclusion," Lelouch admitted. "She first came to my attention when I thought she was a spy for Clovis. By the way, she most definitely is not, but in clearing her of that charge, I incidentally discovered several factors that lead me to believe that she is probably half-Japanese and, if not an outright insurgent, then a sympathizer to their cause."


"Big Brother, did you spy on Lady Stadtfeld due to another fit of paranoia?" Nunnally shook her head, clearly disappointed. "I had rather thought you had learned your lesson, after the unfortunate incident with the plumber."


"That plumber had it coming! He was-!" Lelouch caught the look on Milly's face and stopped himself before he got sidetracked even further. "Regardless," he continued with a cough, "while I admit that my initial assumption was incorrect, I do not regret investigating her, not after what I found."


"Oh? And what did you find, Big Brother?" Nunnally was still clearly signaling disappointment, but Lelouch could detect an edge of interest in her familiar voice. "I certainly hope that all of your snooping yielded at least something of substance."


"I began by searching the database of the Administration's Ministry of Justice," Lelouch said, skipping over the tedious process of socially engineering his entrance into said database. "I wanted to see if she had come to anybody else's notice. Indeed, she has come to the attention of the Knightpolice, who have a log of her comings and goings through the checkpoints into Shinjuku." He allowed himself a smile. "She makes very frequent visits, it would seem."


"That… That's kinda troubling," Milly replied, a hint of a quaver in her voice. "Not that she's visiting the Ghetto for whatever reason, but that the police are already tracking her movements. Does… Does that mean she's already…"


"Already as good as dead?" Lelouch chuckled. "No, not quite. For some inexplicable reason, her file has been marked as a classified object, as well as a case not to be investigated. All of the additions and recent edits were made by automated systems monitoring traffic through the checkpoints. Her records are, for all intents and purposes, clean."


"Her records…" Milly interrupted in a haunted voice. Lelouch, taken off-guard by her hollow tone, blinked. "Her school records… They're doctored, aren't they? Kallen's really a bastard?"


"You knew?" Lelouch asked.


"I… suspected?" Milly offered him a mirthless smile. "It's not exactly that rare these days. Children born out of wedlock or to the 'wrong' parents get quietly legitimized fairly often. There are more than a few students at the Academy who share her burden. For some, it's something of an open secret, for others, a buried shame. For Kallen, I just figured…"


Milly trailed off, at a clear loss for words, before eventually shrugging helplessly. "I guess I just thought it wasn't a big deal. She doesn't act like someone who hates her parents, you know?"


"But…" she sighed, "I suppose her being Japanese would explain her fixation on Eleven and Honorary Britannian issues as a journalist. Not to mention her work with the Rising Sun Association."


"So you know about that as well?" Lelouch asked, surprised.


"Rivalz told me." Milly gave him a sad smile. "He talks to me a lot, you know. He's very proud of that charity, and he told me all about how he may have set it up, but it was Kallen's idea. About how much she runs it. About how passionate she is about helping the Elevens… all because I asked him."


Milly's smile turned brittle and for a moment it looked like she was about to say something, but at the last moment, she bit her lip and looked away.


"I see…" Lelouch organized his thoughts. "Well, did he mention that Kallen also speaks fluent Japanese in a Shitamachi dialect? The native Tokyo dialect," he quickly explained, seeing Milly's baffled expression, "the one especially used by the middle and lower classes pre-Conquest."


Milly made a noncommittal sound. "Not quite… I mean, he said that he heard her speaking in Japanese once and that she sounded pretty smooth, but Rivalz obviously doesn't speak it himself… If she is a half-breed… I suppose it makes sense she'd speak her mother tongue."


"By any chance," Lelouch asked, "did he mention that the Rising Sun Benevolent Association is almost certainly a front for insurrectionists?"


Milly's head snapped up, fear blazing in her eyes. "What?!"


"By any chance, did Rivalz mention that Kallen had a little confrontation with a group of thugs at one of their outdoor soup kitchens the other day?" Lelouch mused aloud. At Milly's confirming nod, he continued, "I was watching when that happened. Those were no mere thugs; I have absolutely no doubt that they were Honorary Britannian soldiers out of uniform and that the members of Rising Sun were entirely prepared to shoot them."


Lelouch's fist clenched at the memory of that thing wearing his dear friend's face. Oh Suzaku, what has happened to you?


"Even if they were garden variety criminals," Lelouch continued, "the fact that Japanese, Elevens to be precise, had access to guns and the capacity to smuggle them through the Ghetto's checkpoints indicates that they are either a highly organized criminal group or affiliated with one of the myriad factions of the Japanese Resistance. Considering their charitable actions outside their native territory of Shinjuku, I am inclined towards the latter."


Although, somebody had to have put that hold on Kallen's official file, somebody with sufficient access to tamper with its classification. That does not sound like something the Japanese rebels up in the mountains would be capable of, and if they were, I doubt that they would use their skills to cover for a half-breed. Which might indicate that somebody's on the take inside the Administration, hinting at potential criminal activity…


"Given that Rivalz neglected to mention your presence as well, I am willing to venture that you had been following Lady Stadtfeld in disguise," Nunnally stated, shooting him a disappointed look. "My Big Brother, stalking young maidens through the streets like some sad, desperate beast…"


Nunnally let out a long, hopeless sigh that actually managed to tug at Lelouch's heart, to his great irritation.


…Maybe I should do less creeping about? Lelouch wondered, then tried to shake the thought from his head. No, no! I'm not going to let my sister chide me into being less thorough! …Even if it would make her happier… No! This manipulation is as blatant as it is cheap! You will have to do better than that, my darling little sister!


"Regardless," Lelouch continued out loud, "what Rivalz likely further failed to notice is that, while Kallen was standing up to the soldiers, all of her Japanese companions were preparing to kill at her command." He locked eyes with Milly, trying to impress upon her the implications of that moment. "They weren't just subtly reaching below their aprons for guns, others were taking quiet steps to flank the soldiers. All of them hanging on Kallen's every word, ready to react immediately.


"I have no doubt that if Kallen had so wished, or if those soldiers had attempted to harm her, none of them would have left that park alive."


Lelouch leaned back and let the words sit.


For her part, Milly looked shaken. It hurt Lelouch to see his normally vivacious friend in such a state, no doubt suddenly worried and acutely aware of her own mortality. Nunnally, however, merely seemed thoughtful.


"Enlightening as this is, none of it means that Lady Stadtfeld is partially Japanese by birth. After all, much of your evidence could describe us equally well, as far as our 'official records' and our familiarities with the local tongue go," Nunnally pointed out, "and just because she has earned the loyalty of the locals does not make her a native."


"True," Lelouch conceded, "and I will admit that she certainly doesn't look Japanese, not even a jot. At this point, however, I would argue that the distinction is irrelevant. Whatever the case, Kallen is tightly bound to a group willing to open fire on a group of obvious soldiers if they posed a threat to her. That's not the kind of loyalty or dedication that just comes from an ordinary charity, and certainly not the kind of loyalty a teenage noble can earn in a few months."


"Hmm… If she is the one truly responsible for creating this organization, one that just so happened to employ dedicated Japanese, instead of Honorary Britannians who could easily become indebted to her…" Nunnally hummed thoughtfully as she trailed off, tapping her chair with her free hand as she considered the possibilities. "I still say Kallen has a good heart, but I do understand the reasons for your concern, Big Brother."


"So, to conclude," Lelouch said, "Kallen has somehow acquired the loyalty of a group of Japanese insurgents, a loyalty that is reciprocated, probably due to her mixed blood. Despite her obviously shaky loyalty to the Empire, the Peelers have been convinced through some unknown method to look the other way on her… indiscretions. This already made her a very dangerous person before our very own Major Pitt revealed her to be a natural ace Knightmare pilot. She is also very clearly a deeply angry person.


"I trust," Lelouch said, looking around the room, "that you understand my concerns."


"Well… maybe she can be talked around?" Milly's tone betrayed her desperation. "I mean, if she's got people she's close with, maybe… Maybe she isn't out for revenge? I mean, surely she's got better targets then… then…"


"...Then a school crammed with the children of the moneyed elite profiting off her people's suffering?" Lelouch finished for her. "No, Milly… I… I remember that day, that month… I remember…"


The smoke filled the sky, entire cities turned into mass funeral pyres, carrying the souls of murdered millions up to their impotent goddess. The feral dogs yelping and burrowing into the rubble, slat-sided with hunger. The stench of decay wafted up from those holes into the unquiet tombs of the dead, homes smashed down by distant cruel hands onto entire families, wiping out lineages in moments.


"She will want her revenge," Lelouch continued, speaking just as much to explain the danger to Milly as to keep his throat open, his tongue moving, his mind distracted from memories now six years old. "However kind her heart may be, the ruin Britannia has likely brought to her has certainly given her ample cause to hate the Empire with all her soul. Considering the damage the Empire has inflicted, can you blame her for such anger?"


"Big Brother…" Nunnally said, an unbearably sad look on her face as she took his hand in both of hers. "You don't know that. You are merely speculating. Not everyone is out for revenge, some people just want to help a noble cause."


"In this instance, dear sister, I worry that the difference between those two is not so clear cut," Lelouch replied with a heavy heart. "Even if Kallen were a saint, it is not as if Britannia has not provided her with a bounty of sinners against which she can direct her righteous anger."


"Including me," Milly muttered in a hollow voice. "This whole time, I've just been convincing her to hate me, haven't I?"


"I…would not put it quite like that, but…" Lelouch grimaced. It was difficult to deny the obvious.


"But what else can I say?" Milly snarled. "If Kallen is Japanese, then everything I've been doing to be 'nice' has done nothing but make me the face of everything she probably hates about us!"


"We don't know that!" Lelouch hastily pointed out, briefly wondering how he had become the one arguing against pessimistic paranoia. "All my evidence is circumstantial at best! I'll admit, it could be a problem, but-"


"But she said it herself!" Milly cried. "She hates me for being a puppet master! Because I-" Milly cut herself off with a choked sob. "Nunnally was right, I never asked what she wanted. I never really thought about who Kallen was or what her heart was like. I just… forced myself on her, like Britannia forced itself on her life."


"When she was about to go up onto that stage today, I…I said she was growing into a splendid young Britannian flower, Lelouch," Milly looked up, eyes haunted by the realization. "If she's the ticking time bomb you think she is, I'm the one who's been winding her up."


Lelouch found his victory over Milly utterly cold, the taste sickening in his mouth.


"Well… I must say that Kallen seems to have a commendable reservoir of self-control," Nunnally commented half a minute later, making a valiant attempt to break the silence and force the conversation back on track. "Kallen, excuse me, Lady Stadtfeld, that is. Truly impressive. It will take a meaningful apology to make this right."


"Well… I suppose that is the next topic, regardless of what Kallen is actually up to outside of school grounds," Lelouch replied, pulling out a chair and taking a seat next to his sister at the table. "I do not believe that a simple sorry is going to be enough here; we need to offer Kallen something of value to both make things right, and to avoid any… lapse in control."


"It's probably best if I'm not the one to deliver that apology," Milly said gloomily, "I… I don't think she'd take it well. Lelouch?"


"I would be happy to help you out, Madam President," he replied, earning a pleased smile from Nunnally. "I can deliver that apology when I welcome her onto the Student Council. It would probably be best if that welcome were a one-on-one affair; Lady Stadtfeld does not strike me as a party person. Certainly not a fan of surprise parties, above all else."


"...Yes, probably for the best," Milly agreed, an admission that must have hurt coming from the party queen herself. "So, what do you get for a noble lady who hates her country?"


For a moment, Lelouch entertained the idea of giving an honest answer. Between the Ashford's assets, their own checkered history with the throne, and their ex-noble status, he supposed something could be arranged. After all, the Ashford Patriarch had already committed sedition when he had kept the vi Britannias hidden, instead of handing them back over to That Man.


Of course, that's a rather simplistic way of evaluating the matter; aiding a pair of disinherited royals is a far cry from providing material support to a Number rebellion.


"If I might make a suggestion," Nunnally chimed in, "she would almost certainly appreciate some help with her records, as well as a copy of our current file for her own perusal. Especially since Big Brother was easily able to find some discrepancies. It would demonstrate a willingness to help her secrets stay just that – secret."


"That would be easy to accomplish," Lelouch added, with Milly nodding in agreement. "Honestly, I could probably go even further with the same idea; if the Knightpolice have already been told not to investigate the contents of her folder, I doubt anybody would pay much attention to some subtle editing of the contents. After all, there is really no reason for our earnest protectors to know when a young lady chooses to visit her family, is there?"


"None at all, Big Brother," Nunnally agreed with an angelic smile. "Indeed, I feel like those gentlemen were quite crass in their observation of Lady Stadtfeld. Do you think you could help them make amends for their indiscretions?"


"That could be a bit more difficult," Lelouch admitted, rubbing his chin, "but on the other hand, the Peelers have never been the best at information security. I happened to hear that Kallen's pet "benevolent association" was experiencing some money problems… Do you think a donation would be adequate amends, dear sister?"


"Oh? Just happened to hear that, did you?" Milly smirked from her end of the table. "You certainly were very thorough in your investigations, weren't you, Lulu? You really probed Kallen's background very deeply…"


Lelouch ignored Milly's harmless provocations and stood up from the table. "And on that note, I believe we have a plan. Milly, you owe me for this."


"Sure, sure." The languid mask of the Queen Bee of Ashford was well and truly back in place. "You know I'm always happy to do anything that might make you happy, Lelouch."


"Except, of course, for your own share of the Council's paperwork," Nunally interjected helpfully. "Really, Milly, it is quite rude how much of Big Brother's time you take up. I need some Lelouch time as well! And Sayoko is ever so sad when he stays out late, slaving over the budget!"


"Hey, that's not because of me!" Milly protested with faux indignation. "You should check some smokey den of gamblers and thieves if you really want to make Sayoko happy by having him back by curfew!"


Being the master of strategy that he was, Lelouch knew instantly that there was no way to fend off the combined teasing efforts of his sister and his hostess. "I will get started on our conciliatory gift to Kallen," he said, retreating from the conference room, "plenty of work to be done, after all. A good day to you both, Madam President, Madam Junior President."


Nunnally's peals of delighted laughter followed him out into the hallway as the door swung shut, and Lelouch smiled at the sound as he began trudging his way back up to the apartment. He sincerely hoped that Kallen would enjoy the gift and take it in the spirit intended, burying the hatchet. He quite liked Milly and enjoyed how Nunnally came alive around her.


It would be a shame if it became necessary to prevent Kallen from disturbing that happiness.


MAY 6, 2016 ATB
ASHFORD ACADEMY, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
1240


The view from the roof of Ashford Academy was, as always, distinctly lacking, in Lelouch's opinion. The trendier neighborhoods of the Tokyo Settlement, home to the upper crust of the commons and the lower orders of the nobility, stretched out to the east towards the looming edifice of the Britannian Concession squatting atop its gargantuan platform. Looking out from the roof of the Science Wing, a casual viewer could believe themselves back in the Homeland.


Britannia, as far as the eye can see! So much progress yet so little taste. So much construction, yet utterly devoid of anything that could be called architecture.


It would almost be farcical if it were not for all the bones beneath the foundations of those shining halls, not to mention the jagged spires of broken Tokyo, still rusting in place, six years after the old city's murder.


To the north, the prosperous neighborhoods extended a bit further before gradually tapering off into the more working-class neighborhoods and finally out into the Honorary Britannian districts. Barely visible over the hodgepodge of two to four-story structures, residential and industrial and commercial all jumbled up, the walls of the Shinjuku Ghetto cowered against the horizon, peeping out towards the Concession like a dog afraid of being beaten.


How ironic that the walls of the ghetto were raised by those caged within? The same hands that laid down the piling for the stilts also poured the concrete slabs that were raised around their refugee camp turned open-air prison.


Lelouch often came up to the roof to think. He had always had an affinity for high places, even back in childhood, when he had scrambled onto the widow's walk atop the Aries Palace to survey the grounds. He had watched the chain gangs of newly christened Elevens raise the walls around Shinjuku five years ago, standing on the roof of the expropriated home purchased by Ruben Ashford as his temporary residence. He had wondered then if one of the tiny figures toiling away was Suzaku, beaten and forced into submission.


I had half-hoped that would be the case, for it would have meant that he was still alive. I suppose in a way that hope has been fulfilled. I suppose there is a lesson in that, if I squint hard enough to see it.


Four days ago, Lelouch had seen his best friend again for the first time in years. It had not been the reunion he had dreamt of; although Suzaku was Nunnally's friend as well, Lelouch had yet to tell her that he had seen the other boy alive and… well, he supposed.


At the very least, Lelouch thought, leaning on the railing guarding the roof's edge, I saw that he was alive. I am not sure if I can describe the man I saw menace supposedly unarmed civilians mentally well. Suzaku… What happened to you?


That was the question indeed. What had happened to Suzaku, after Lelouch had bid him return to his father? Three weeks after Suzaku had promised eternal friendship and left, the Britannians had broadcast the news of Prime Minister Kururugi's suicide, helicopters flying overhead dropping leaflets as radios boomed the announcement out on all frequencies.


For his part, Lelouch had doubted that the Kururugi patriarch had ordered a general surrender before taking his life. That did not mesh with the man who had been his reluctant host for a year. Lelouch had found it far more likely That Man had ordered the assassination of Kururugi Genbuu and had falsely claimed the surrender, destroying Japanese leadership and morale in a single fell swoop. At the time, he could only assume that Suzaku had joined his father in the grave.


But that was clearly not the case, because Corporal Kururugi was unquestionably Suzaku. But, while the Suzaku Lelouch had known was a pigheaded, violent pain in the ass, obsessed with honor and rules, he was also a kind boy who had endless patience for Nunnally, who always strove to be the best, and who had eagerly joined a young exiled prince in petty childhood mischiefs, such as filling Todoh's gi with itching powder.


I can still see the edges of that boy in the soldier he has become if I squint hard enough.


Behind Lelouch, the door to the rooftop opened and the reason why he was up on the roof thinking about Suzaku stepped out, eyes wary and stiff in her new uniform.


"So," Kallen Stadtfeld said, her level tone conveying a calm professionalism that almost successfully hid her simmering anger from Lelouch's educated ears. "If Milly put you up to this, please just tell me right now. You can consider your job completed and message delivered, and I'll have enough time to enjoy my sandwich in peace."


"Congratulations on your ceremony, Cadet Sergeant Stadtfeld," Lelouch replied in lieu of an answer, turning from the railing to face his classmate. "I do not believe that it is precisely common for cadets to be promoted two grades before their first day of training, not even for noble cadets. That is quite the accomplishment indeed."


"Thanks," she replied curtly, "I'm honored. Was that all?"


"Not quite," Lelouch said as Kallen half-turned back towards the door. "As the highest-ranking cadet enrolled at Ashford, you are also the first leader of the newly founded Ashford ROTC. Has Major Pitt already gone over your responsibilities?"


"Not… yet," Kallen admitted, her lips twisting with momentary distaste. "I have a meeting scheduled with him after school, though, so maybe that's when he'll tell me what exactly being a 'cadet sergeant' entails. I would have appreciated the warning and maybe an explanation…"


You and me both, Stadtfeld. Although at least Milly doesn't demand that I salute when she gives orders. Not usually, anyway.


"Sprung it on you, did he?" Lelouch asked sympathetically. "Well, I cannot claim much insight into the ROTC, not exactly being a military man myself," he smirked at his own self-depreciation, "but I did want to let you know that, as the leader of the ROTC, you have a seat on the Student Council."


Momentary surprise flashed to annoyance. "Wha-? Fuck, of course I do," she muttered, clearly irritated, "Dammit… Seriously, is there anything at this damned school that Milly doesn't somehow control?"


"Funny you should mention that, Cadet Sergeant," Lelouch couldn't help but smirk at the irony of her comment. "The ROTC is at the Academy by decree of Prince Clovis, and such it is well outside the purview of what the Ashfords can command."


Lelouch's smile turned apologetic as he continued. "Much as you may believe otherwise, your addition to the Council as the voice of the ROTC is not one of her machinations. In fact, you can thank your new commanding officer for this particular obligation. He was quite insistent that the ROTC should have the opportunity to speak for the most patriotic students enrolled at Ashford Academy. Which, I suppose, means you."


Kallen drew herself up, and for a moment Lelouch worried that she was about to do something unwise, but instead, she released her mounting frustration in a controlled huff halfway between a sigh and a growl.


"I… see," Kallen carefully enunciated through grit teeth. She forced a smile at him, boiling rage locked tight behind a brittlely thin mask of gratitude. "Thank you for the… information, Lelouch. It seems we shall be colleagues soon enough."


How did Milly fail to notice her anger? Lelouch marveled. To him, Kallen's attempts to conceal her feelings behind smiles and small talk were decidedly wooden and transparent to the point of obviousness. Perhaps she is still shaken from the ceremony? It would be understandable if my deductions about her political loyalties are anything close to accurate.


"Indeed… So, welcome to the Student Committee, Cadet Sergeant Stadtfeld," Lelouch said with a smile full of sympathy. "Actually, do you mind if I call you Kallen? The title is frankly a bit much."


Kallen's brow furrowed, her mask strained yet further by the naked suspicion dancing in her eyes. Lelouch could practically feel the brush of her scalpel-like glare against his skin as she scanned him up and down, searching for hidden motives and potential threats.


Oh, Milly, Lelouch chided internally, you had no idea of just how dangerous the beast you were prodding this whole time was, did you?


"...Sure," Kallen eventually allowed, sliding back into the mask of the casual noble cadet with effort. "It's just a stuffy rank, anyways, don't worry about it." She shrugged. "Besides, we're gonna be working together soon enough anyways, aren't we? Standing on ceremony sounds like it'd just get in the way."


"True enough, Kallen," said Lelouch, "and that brings me to another matter. While I was getting your council membership paperwork organized – you get a small, discretionary salary as a sitting member, by the way – I happened to come across a few small irregularities in your Academy records."


Kallen's breath stilled, the potent energy that had swirled around her since she had stepped through the door abruptly focused entirely on Lelouch. The sudden air of menace was almost palpable.


And without even lifting a finger! Quite impressive, really.


"And what," Kallen asked, her voice very careful, very contained, "irregularities did you find, Mister Vice President?"


"Lelouch, please," he replied with a casual smile.


It would be best, I think, to humanize myself in her eyes as quickly as possible. And to let her know that people know where I am.


"Do not worry overly much, Kallen," Lelouch continued. "I even asked my little sister if she thought there would be any issues from the minor clerical errors I spotted before I took her to her classes this morning. She assured me that all would be well."


"How… reassuring."


The noble cadet and secret dissident looked anything but reassured. Her face had all the mobility and warmth of porcelain, and Lelouch noticed that her fists were tightly balled at the sides of her uniform's gray skirt. The vibrant red hair under her garrison cap practically screamed warnings to his animal brain to stay away and not to touch under any circumstances.


She looks just like Cornelia, only slightly less headstrong.


"Well, I am sure you will be happy to hear that all of those clerical errors have been addressed," Lelouch blithely continued, pretending that he hadn't noticed how her eyes had fixated on his throat. "None other than yours truly corrected your record at the Academy. I took the liberty of running off a complete copy of your new, accurate school record for you to peruse."


Taking a very small gamble – they were still on school grounds, after all, and he doubted she would murder him in the middle of the lunch hour – Lelouch turned his back on the simmering girl and stepped over to the valise he had left leaning against the rail. As he reached down, he slowed and carefully twisted just enough so Kallen could watch him reach into the satchel and withdraw a folder.


"Here we go!" Lelouch said cheerfully as he returned, deliberately not noticing how one of her hands was slowly creeping back into sight from behind her back, "One copy of the Academy records of Kallen Stadtfeld. Now with corrected information regarding your middle school attendance, your mother's marriage date to your father, and also with updated medical records to reflect your problems earlier this year."


Kallen's eyes narrowed as she accepted the folder from him, and she barely looked down as she flipped the folder open.


So, now she knows that I know that her records are fabricated. She also knows that I have gone out of my way to cover for her. I think her reaction will be… suspicion.


"That was very kind of you, Lelouch," Kallen replied, her voice notably less than gracious. "Although, I can't help but think that there could be some problems in the future when someone contrasts my Academy file with the Ministry of Education's files. Also, while I'm not questioning your word, if the Academy's files are so easy to mess with, how can I be sure that someone with enough access like, say, the Council President wouldn't be able to screw with them again?"


"By wondrous design," Lelouch said breezily, "the Ministry's records were recently updated to reflect data corrections submitted by some of Japan's, I'm sorry, Area 11's educational facilities. As for future interference, well…" He grimaced slightly. "Look, to be forthright about this, Milly unquestionably acted dishonorably towards you. Multiple times. But, she wants to make this right. Whose access code do you think I used when I edited your files?"


When she forgets to pretend to be a noble, Lelouch mused as Kallen's eyes flew wide at his "accidental" slip of the tongue, before narrowing in anger at her tormentor's name, she has an amazingly expressive face. She would have been devoured alive by the Court in an afternoon. Figuratively speaking, of course. Probably.


"If I don't accept this apology…" Kallen ground out, "what then? Will Madam President somehow arrange for me to fail a test? Contrive to force me into some humiliating and revealing costume? Put me up for grabs again?"


Oh, Milly… Lelouch almost sighed, you really did a number on this girl. All in the name of "fun".


I hope you've learned your lesson.


"If you do not accept her apology, it will simply create an awkward work environment," Lelouch replied calmly, carefully pitching his voice towards honest openness. "I understand that Milly is difficult at the best of times – truly, I do. But, and I say this as the other person she put up for grabs recently, she truly is not a bad person. Spoiled? Yes. Thoughtless? Often? Over-sexed and bored? Always. But you will be on the Student Council with her, Kallen, unless you can convince Major Pitt otherwise."


"...I wonder if the Army would just let me transfer schools?" Kallen thought aloud. "I know most of the other schools here in Area 11 suck, but…"


"I think Major Pitt would allow a great deal," Lelouch carefully answered, "but… Tell me, Kallen, do you think a man like that would do you any favor for free?"


"Do I have any reason to believe this 'apology' from Milly is anything other than a noose around my neck and a pat on the head?" Kallen shot back. "My father sent me to this Academy in part to avoid the military meddling with his house. But that plan's dead and gone, thanks to Milly's kind assistance, so…"


Kallen's smile was anything but nice. "So, what do I have to lose?"


"That…" Lelouch began, carefully recalculating, "...is a fair point, and I can see why you might see things that way, but I do not think sitting on the Student Council will be quite as bad as you expect. Rivalz will be there, for one, as will I. Milly did not understand before quite how she was affecting you, but she has been made to see the error in her ways. Before you consider transferring, kindly give us a shot. You might even enjoy yourself."


"...Why are you giving me the hard sell here?" Kallen asked as the pendulum swung back to suspicion. "What's in it for you, Lelouch? Why are you so eager for me to join your Council?"


I doubt she would respond well to my reasoning, namely "Knights of the Round grade pilots don't just fall from the sky, and I plan on making you my tool."


"Because I think that you and I combined can effectively check most of Milly's more outrageous ideas," Lelouch responded instead. "Rivalz is quite impressed by you, impressed enough that he might resist Milly's charms if you ask him for your support. Between my role as Vice President and his role as Treasurer of the Student Council, the three of us should be able to put the kibosh on most of her inane impulses. Just imagine it, an Ashford Academy without weekly parties!"


Lelouch had hoped that the remark would help open a chink in her armor. Humor was, after all, an invaluable diplomatic weapon, when wielded correctly.


Instead, Kallen gave him a long, slow, blink.


…Well, it might be time for plan C. Lelouch thought, sure she was about to refuse.


But then she surprised him.


"...Alright, fine, whatever," Kallen sighed. "I'll attend a few meetings. But! If that bitch tries to grab my chest even once, I am going to smash her perfect fucking teeth out of her stupid fucking face, understand?"


Clearly, Kallen wasn't entirely sold by his pitch, but that she was still willing to play ball at all meant Lelouch wasn't out of the game quite yet. And if I have an inch, I'll take a mile.


"Like crystal," Lelouch replied with a smile of his own, stretching out a hand. "Welcome to the Student Council, Kallen. Together, we shall do great things."


And if I can truly bring you into my confidence, perhaps a noble Britannian junior officer with sympathies for the Japanese can do what I cannot. I would not have survived without Suzaku's help, I am sure of that. I cannot repay the favor to save him from his own bad decisions now, but to a rising young ace, many doors are open.


I have not forgotten the fields of the dead, and I remember who brought food and water for Nunnally. Hold on, Suzaku – I was strong enough to carry Nunnally then, and soon I will be strong enough to carry you.


MAY 6, 2016 ATB
ALLEYWAY, KITA WARD, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
1758


Long ago and far away, Alexander lo Britannia, the Eighth Prince and one of Lelouch's ten elder half-brothers, had scoffed at a then-seven-year-old Lelouch's claims of possessing a genius to rival their elder half-brother, Prince Schniezel's. Alexander, a thin bespectacled boy, had been very bookish, and just as Schneizel favored Chess as his intellectual battleground, Alexander had favored the memorization and recitation of long books.


"If you're so smart," Alexander had challenged, "memorize the entirety of the Holy Bible. Schneizel did as much when he was ten, and if you really are smarter than him, you should be able to do the same at seven!"


For the next three days, Lelouch had spent every free minute committing the old tome to his memory, preparing to defend his clearly obvious genius against his petulant elder half-brother. As it turned out, he need not have bothered; Alexander was found dead in his bedroom four days later, the skin around his mouth red and blistered. The very next day, nine servants and a guard had been proclaimed guilty of regicide and flayed for poisoning the Eighth Prince.


Emperor Charles, of course, hadn't attended either the mass flaying or Alexander's funeral.


But, Lelouch still had that book pressed into his memory. He'd had little reason to summon up his knowledge of the King James's text in the last nine years, but it was still there, squatting toadlike in the back of his head.


Alright, something about fish and the number eighteen… Mark one seventeen is the bit about "fishers of men", and Mark one eighteen is… "And straightaway they forsook their nets, and followed him." Which tells me nothing, but… Maybe the arrow was pointing past the puzzle?


Lelouch, back in the same working-class neighborhood he'd wandered into on Monday night, ventured deeper into the alley, walking past the cross half-hidden behind the dumpster as he looked for further paint in either the silver or the blue shades left near the entrance.


At an intersection with a larger alley, a smudge of powder blue in a vaguely arrow-like shape pointed Lelouch northwards. Two intersections down, a vague blob on a sewer grate gestured to the east. Lelouch, already tired of the game, pushed on regardless; he'd devoted enough time to this nonsense that the pressure of the sunk cost fallacy overmatched his mounting irritation.


Finally, after what felt like an endless series of hints that presumably would have been barely noticeable to someone without his observational skills and genius, Lelouch reached the end of his impromptu hash run in front of a set of stairs descending to the basement access. Checking his phone, Lelouch found that it was almost nineteen hundred already, and the streets were thronged with pedestrians.


I will have to come back again later, perhaps after nightfall, he decided. There are simply too many people around. But… That puzzle must be some sort of password or code, something to get in. When would they most likely meet, though? Sunday? That would be the most obvious day for a secret group of heretics or schismatics to meet…


Lelouch stepped back from the stairs and looked at the building the basement was under. Albert's Taphouse, eh? So a bar. It sounds like it's pretty busy in there… Makes sense for a Friday night. He walked up to the bar's entrance and peered at the paper menu taped to the inside of the windowed door. Next to the daily specials was a list of weekly events.


Lady's Night every Saturday from sixteen hundred until twenty-one hundred? No, that doesn't feel right… But bar trivia at twenty hundred, every Tuesday night, huh? Sounds like a bunch of traffic coming in and out… Good cover for any individual or group of any age… Perfect for an illicit basement meeting.


Well, Lelouch smiled to himself, I do enjoy a round of trivia now and again. I would just have to make sure that I avoid winning by too much… Actually, he frowned, I probably should not win; that would make me memorable. That's the last thing I want, and assuming that the group meeting in the basement has any organization, there will be someone watching the crowd, looking for police plants.


Which, he mused as he turned and started making his way back down the street, means that I should not come by myself either, as a single outsider could strike paranoid heretics as suspicious. Rivalz is probably out as well, as two strange young men are probably just as suspicious as one alone. But Milly, maybe? A young couple using a casual social event to facilitate a date? Now that has legs.


Besides, she does owe me for cleaning up her mess with Kallen. I'm sure she'll be happy to wipe the slate clean so quickly!


Milly picked up on the second ring.


"Hey there, Lulu," the Ashford heiress said by way of greeting, her voice sultry even over the phone's tinny speakers, "making a night-time call to little ol' me? How intriguing! I hope you aren't calling me with honorable intentions?"


"I am afraid that I will have to disappoint you," Lelouch chuckled, walking as he talked into the phone. "After all, when are my intentions ever anything less than honorable?"


"That's the disappointing part…" Milly sighed. "You know, you really could stand to be a bit more adventurous, Lulu. Just a bit."


Lelouch ignored the flare of annoyance with practiced ease, a swift rebuttal already on his lips. "I need to be more adventurous, hmm? Remind me, Milly, which one of us actually dares venture outside the campus to find their fun?"


He could practically hear her pout from the other end of the line. Lelouch didn't even bother to try and hide the smile it brought to his lips. "In fact, it was just the other day you were chiding me for braving the Black King's gambling halls while you sat around a boudoir, was it not?"


"Fiiiine!" Milly whined into his ear, "You made your point, Lulu! Forgive a delicate maiden such as myself for wanting to have a little fun with the Academy's very own tall, dark and charming bachelor! If I'd known you'd be so black-hearted as to spurn such a beautiful flower's advances as well as Shirley's, maybe I shouldn't have bothered?"


"Well," Lelouch said aloud, "ask and you shall receive, Milly. I have a sojourn to the Kita Ward planned for next Tuesday; an adventure, if you will. Would you care to be my plus one?"


"Oh my, so forward!" Milly all but purred in his ear. "You'd take an almost-noble girl like me out to such a rough and tumble place? What villainy do you have in mind? Something that would scandalize Shirley, I hope! Did you find a new dive to play cards in? Or perhaps it's a cockfighting ring this time?"


"Neither! Milly Ashford…" Lelouch grinned into the phone, injecting as much unwarranted seriousness into the invitation as he could, "would you do me the honor of joining me for a night of bar trivia?"


"...You cannot be serious," the disappointment in her sigh was bottomless, and Lelouch's grin grew an inch wider. "Bar trivia? Seriously, Lulu? Why the hell are you going to bar trivia?"


"We can discuss it further in person if you wish," he said, allowing the smile and silliness to slip away in favor of a more somber tone. "But just to keep things short, I want a good look at the inside of the basement of the bar in question. A young couple out for some school night fun seems less obviously suspicious than a lone man skulking around."


"Oh?" Predictably, the flirtatiousness returned to Milly's voice. "We'd be posing as a couple? Well, just so long as you know what you're getting into, Lulu; the great Milly Ashford is a method actress, you know~"


"I never kiss on a first date," Lelouch replied blandly.


"Who said it had to be our first~?" Milly purred in his ear. "I certainly don't intend for it to be our last~."


Lelouch sighed tiredly. "...Thanks Milly, I appreciate it."


"It's always a pleasure," she said warmly, "even if you are a tease. My, Shirley's going to be jealous~"


"Somehow, I doubt I will lose much sleep over it," Lelouch replied. The comment, intended as a casual dismissal, reminded him of a topic he had already been losing sleep over. "Hey, Milly?"


"What is it, Lelouch?" Milly had clearly noticed the change in his voice, her own growing equally serious.


"Do you…" He gulped. "Do you or your grandfather have any connections in the military?"


"Umm…" Milly hesitated. "You'll have to be more specific than that. Why? What do you need?"


"I have a friend," Lelouch began, "a friend from before… Before the Conquest. Before I accepted the hospitality of the House of Ashford. A… A Japanese friend. Recently, I discovered that he has, for some baffling reason, taken up the oath in one of the Honorary Legions."


"Oh… Oh, Lulu…" Milly's voice was instantly sympathetic and pitying. "I'm so sorry. But… I mean, chances are that he'll survive his stint. And ten years isn't too long. By the time it's up, things might have simmered down a bit…"


Good to know that we both suck at being reassuring.


"I am not content to take chances, not when I can avoid it," Lelouch replied dispassionately, pushing the instantaneous throb that the thought of losing another important person inspired back down. "However, I have limited means and no inroads into the military. On the other hand, the Ashford name still carries weight, at least in regards to Knightmare-related matters. Do you think that there could be any possibility that…?"


"I mean…" Milly sounded uneasy. "I guess there's always a chance? Grandpa has a pretty deep favor bank, so… possibly? But… C'mon, Lulu, they're not going to let an Honorary, especially not an Eleven Honorary, anywhere near a Knightmare."


"Just… try," he requested, hating the waver that entered his voice. "Please. It does not have to be with the Knightmare Corps; I would just be happy with his transfer to a unit not comprised solely of expendable cannon fodder. While I am confident that my friend will survive his term of service even in the Honorary Legion, I doubt that he will still be the person I remember by the end of it."


"...I can't promise anything, but I'll try," Milly agreed, sympathy warring with reluctance. "What's this friend's name? Do you know what his unit and rank are?"


I should have looked up the unit; it would not have been difficult to find his service record. But… I just could not bring myself to look for it. I did not want to know… Know what he had done in That Man's name.


"His family name is Kururugi," Lelouch said gratefully, "and his given name is Suzaku. I think I heard one of the soldiers I saw refer to him as Corporal. I do not know his unit; they were out of uniform when I saw them."


"Kururugi, eh?" Clearly, the name was not lost on Milly. "And a corporal? Man, the Legion has no idea who he is, do they? That's good, that'll help. I'll see what I can do."


"Thank you," Lelouch replied, and ended the call.


I have done what I can for Suzaku for now, and I have already spent my favor with Milly. I hope her grandfather can do something to save him because I surely cannot.


MAY 10, 2016 ATB
ALBERT'S TAPHOUSE, KITA WARD, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
1948


By the time Milly and Lelouch arrived at the Taphouse, an impressive crowd had already gathered at the bar. The common area was practically standing room only, and the shared table the middle-aged waitress guided Milly towards only had a single seat available. Lelouch graciously pulled it out for his "date," before leaning against the wall behind her.


"New faces, eh?" A matronly woman greeted them with a tired yet cheerful from across the table. "Good to meet you, dearies. I'm Hilda, and this is my husband, Charles."


"Here for some trivia, eh?" A slender man with the shiny burns and thick calluses of a machinist waved from Hilda's right. "What're you kids good for, hmm? I'm pretty good at football trivia myself, and the missus knows everything there is to know about the soaps and shows."


"It's good to meet you guys too!" Milly beamed. "I'm Milly, and this is Leland. I'm pretty good at botany, biology, and all kinds of anatomy! Oh, and I watch a ton of TV too, so I can help you out, Hilda!"


"And I have a pretty solid command of history," Lelouch put in, leaning forwards onto the back of Milly's chair and resting his hands on her shoulders. "We cover each other's weaknesses quite nicely! I am certain that tonight, we shall triumph!"


"Quite right!" The wire-thin man across Charles put in, bright eyes blazing under a manic shock of hair as he turned to greet the newcomers. "The name's Havelock, and if you want any poetry or literary trivia, I'm your man!"


"Do you guys have a team name or anything?" Milly asked as Lelouch waved down the waitress. "And who's asking the questions tonight, do you know?"


"Ah, your first time?" Hilda asked with a knowing chuckle. "Not to worry, dearies, we're always looking for fresh blood. Old Tim always asks the questions, and we don't do team names – each of the tables is numbered, so we just go those instead."


"Didn't always use to be that way," Havelock interjected. "Used to be that everybody would spend a good fifteen, twenty minutes hashing out the names! But, as always, some young prick got all pissy about it and tried to glass his buddy when they just couldn't agree, so the table number is the house rule now."


"My, how violent!" Milly gasped theatrically behind her hand, miming a worried glance up at Lelouch. Familiarity made the dancing sparks of interest in her eye impossible to miss. "Glassing… That's when someone breaks a bottle and slashes someone with it, right? What happened? Was he okay?"


Nothing like a bit of danger to inject a note of adventure, Lelouch thought wryly. And Milly certainly loves her adventures.


"Mhm." Charles nodded, lips tightening momentarily. "Smashed a pint glass over the poor devil's head. Damned mess to clean up. But the Peelers showed up soon enough to haul the bastard away, and Doc Lawn got the glass out of the other man's scalp. Damn eventful for a Tuesday night, I tell you."


"Quite," Lelouch replied as the order of fried onions arrived. "Here, help yourselves, everybody. Thank you for letting Milly and I join you for the night."


"Thanks, Leland!" Havelock didn't wait for any further invitation, and as a second platter of fried onions and a round of cheap beer for the adults and cokes for the two sixteen-year-olds arrived, the small talk turned increasingly amiable.


By the time Old Tim stepped up to the ancient microphone to start the Trivia Night in earnest, Milly already had all three of the locals eating out of her palm, to Lelouch's amusement. She had dressed them both up as commoners for the night with an efficiency and a deft touch that he should have expected in hindsight, considering her love of costumes.


Interestingly, away from Ashford Academy and everybody who knew her as Milly Ashford apart from himself, Milly had chosen a very demure outfit, contrary to Lelouch's expectations. Her long skirt was loose and reached all the way down to the middle of her calves, and the shawl draped over her blouse covered up any stray hint of skin. Not that there were any, as she had buttoned said blouse all the way to the neckline.


Honestly, I think the modest outfit would shock our classmates more than the Queen of Ashford lowering herself to a blue-collar bar.


Disguises aside, it was surprisingly easy for Lelouch to allow himself to slip into "Leland", the pleasant and polite student and amateur historian. The role felt light on his shoulders and it gave him a reason to feign ignorance about most of the questions asked. By forcing himself to only give input on questions relating to history, Lelouch was proud that his team was in second place by the end of the round, narrowly avoiding the first-place slot.


The only downside was how… persistent Milly was in sticking to her self-assigned role as his girlfriend.


When someone at another table had left, Havelock had managed to snag their chair and had offered it to Lelouch so he could sit down. No sooner had he taken his seat than Milly had hopped up from her chair and deposited herself in his lap, to the men's approving laughter and Hilda's tolerant smile. Before Lelouch could protest, Havelock had slid the now-vacant chair back over to the other table, leaving him with a lapful of smiling Student Council President.


Then came the long, soulful stares when Old Tim had asked about some soap opera relationship, which character had left his wife for his mistress or some rot. Then had come her fanciful nonsense when Hilda had asked how they had met. Apparently, "Leland and Milly" were childhood friends who had been briefly separated by a parental move before they had reunited in Area 11, a triumph of young love, to hear Milly tell it.


Hilda had been properly appreciative, cooing in all the right spots. Lelouch had been less enthusiastic, although he had managed to play his irritation off as coy shyness.


To his mild horror, Havelock had been very sympathetic when Milly had hopped off to use the ladies' room.


"Enjoy it while it lasts, lad," he'd advised, clapping "Leland" on the shoulder with surprising strength for such a thin man. "Birds come and they go, and scarcely do they linger on a branch for long. Just don't let that one tie you up in too many knots, okay? Sometimes," he winked, "they like to be chased, you know. Just so long as it's on their terms."


Thankfully, before Lelouch had been forced to try to respond to that, Hilda had ridden to his rescue.


"Havelock Smythe, you horrible man, what nonsense are you putting in that boy's brain!" Her spoon had smacked down into the table beside Havelock's hand, causing the man to jump in his chair. "Damned poets!"


Fortunately, by the time the third round had begun, Lelouch had managed to escape into a second chair, freeing himself temporarily from Milly's admittedly convincing acting. That acting served as an excellent smokescreen, allowing "Leland" to steadily retreat away from the conversation as Milly chatted on.


By the time they secured third place, in no small part thanks to Lelouch's iron self-control stopping him from providing all of the answers to his teammates, Milly was deep into a conversation with Hilda about some convoluted television plot Lelouch couldn't even begin to make out. Meanwhile, Charles and Havelock were bitching about some unknown party. Seizing his chance, Lelouch muttered something about paying for the appetizers and slipped away from the table, leaving Milly to hold all attention firmly in place.


The bartender was, to say the least, unwelcoming.


"...Whaddya want, kid?" His accent was pure Pendragon, revealing the man's Homeland heritage. "You hear to settle?"


"Yes sir," Lelouch smiled as he fished a few pound coins out of his pocket. "The onions were quite good."


"Good to hear it," the bartender muttered as he pushed a grubby note across the stained wooden surface of the bar. "Three and ten, please."


"Here you go," Lelouch dropped five of the worn coins onto the receipt and pushed the paper back across the counter. "I was kind of disappointed that you did not have any calamari available, though. I guess the fishermen forsook their nets for the night, eh? They must have followed some loudmouth off to other engagements."


The bartender frowned for a moment, presumably wondering what Lelouch was on about since calamari rings were very clearly listed on the appetizers. Then, his expression went blank again, as placid as a lake. "Could be the case. You know how it is, someone sees some sign and decides to upend their whole life over it. They get it in their head to go out and conquer the world."


As the bartender spoke, he wrung out a wet rag on the bar in front of Lelouch. Without breaking eye contact, Lelouch drew a very sloppy Chi-Rho with the water droplets, before the rag swished back and wiped away the symbol.


"Past the bathrooms and down the stairs," the bartender said in a conversational tone, a non sequitur to anybody not in the know. "Mind your head – there's a bump halfway down."


"Many thanks," Lelouch tapped a finger to his forehead as if miming a salute, before letting his fingers drop straight down to brush over his lips. The bartender mimed touching his heart and nodded, and Lelouch walked past him into the dimly lit back corridor.


The hallway was thankfully deserted and Lelouch quickly found the splintered wooden door marked "Stairs" just past the restrooms, tucked away behind a pile of empty crates. The only sign that anybody had slipped past the crates in recent memory was the lack of grime where the opening door had pushed it back.


Without so much as a single backward look, Lelouch stepped around the accumulated crates, turned the knob, and quietly slipped past the door into the darkness beyond.


Confidence is the key. The most crucial part of any disguise was the confidence that you were who you claimed to be. It had been that way everywhere Lelouch had gone in life, from the Imperial Court to the shattered post-Conquest streets of Hachioji. And now, by sign and by signal, I have told whoever is down in the basement that I am one of them. Therefore, I am coming home, not plunging into danger. Confidence.


Halfway down the stairs, Lelouch was forced to duck under a low-hanging HVAC conduit.


Just like the barman warned me about, he thought with amusement, rubbing at his aching forehead, although not quite the way I had expected. With all of those double-meanings we were tossing around, I expected "the bump" I should watch for would be a man with a baton. I suppose that was not, in fact, part of the skullduggery.


The basement Lelouch stepped out into was built of dingy red bricks and had clearly seen long service as the storage room for the bar's excess inventory before it had found a new purpose. His eyes darted from the twenty-odd people standing around the basement clearly waiting for someone to show up to the obvious altar standing at the head of the room, if such a term could be used to describe a pair of boards on top of a keg draped in a tablecloth.


Above the altar, an old banner hung from a nail driven into the brickwork. The white linen had yellowed with age, but the embroidered device still retained its original colors of red, white, and blue.


It was unmistakably the same shield he had previously found painted on a wall, picked out in fine stitchwork instead of crude spray paint. The red of Saint George's cross gleamed against the pure white inlay, the symbols of the Chi-Rho and the letters Alpha and Omega contrasted against cerulean blue quartering.


The old church sign!


It was a symbol from a different Britannia, a Britannia that existed before the Emblem of Blood. When Baudoin du Britannia, 92nd Emperor of Britannia, had been assassinated in 1955, it kicked off a struggle for the throne that would not be fully resolved until That Man brought the conflict to a shuddering stop in 1998. The Britannia that emerged from the calamitous four-decade-long succession struggle was a very different creature from what it had once been.


Virtually every source of legitimacy had been demolished over those long, bloody years, including the old Britannic Church. Long a handmaiden of the Imperial Family, as the various dynastic branches fought for the throne the ecclesiastical hierarchy likewise ripped each other asunder. In the end, Bishop Warren of Tucson had backed the right horse in Charles zi Britannia and had been elevated to the position of Archbishop of Rochester and Chief Primate of the Britannic Church.


A match made in Hell, if ever there was one.


The religious reforms had been just as overarching as the temporal reforms. As That Man ruthlessly re-centralized power and brought nobles who had grown used to their freedoms back to heel, Archbishop Warren had made crucial changes to church doctrine, including the open embrace of polygamy, long an informal practice but never officially sanctioned, and the enshrining of the Emperor as the living voice of God in the temporal realm.


There had been, of course, protesting voices and dissidents pushing back on the radical new doctrine. Those voices had been branded heretics and had been executed as the heretics they now were. Drowned, beheaded, staked, and burned, Archbishop Warren had been ruthless in rooting out any old believing clergy unwilling or unable to go underground.


And now, Lelouch thought as he looked up at the aged banner that had, in all probability, once graced the wall of a parish church, the remnants hide among the settlers in the newly conquered Areas in the Pacific, or in the jungles of Areas 6 and 7 amongst the Catholic insurgents. All the while preaching of the day when a true king shall come to reopen the Emblem of Blood and cast down the usurper.


I can work with this.


Drawing on old lessons from his childhood spent as a prince of a holy empire, and thus required to attend public devotions on the high holidays, Lelouch drew himself up straight and, defying the orthodoxy of his childhood, raised the first two fingers – one straight and one slightly bent, thumb folded just so – to his forehead, before brushing down over his lips and down to his heart. Then, oriented towards the banner, he bowed low from the waist and crossed himself on rising.


A gentle sigh of collective relief drifted from the small crowd as he made the appropriate ritual genuflection. Hands relaxed around copies of the Book of Common Prayer and the few whose hands had slipped out of sight as Lelouch came down the stairs released whatever they had secreted in their pockets.


A man stepped out from the crowd. "Peace be with you," he said, greeting Lelouch with a smile and an outstretched hand.


"And also with you," Lelouch replied, shaking the proffered hand before adding, "and upon all who gather here in congregation."


"We're still waiting on Father Timothy," the man explained as he guided Lelouch towards the gathered knot of people, away from the stairs. "He usually takes his time. But, in the meantime, you can call me Brother Phillip. What name do you choose to worship under, Brother?"


Assumed names to introduce distance, in case one or more are found, Lelouch assumed. Some of them were probably in the crowd upstairs, and one could have heard me introduce myself as Leland, so that is not an option if I want to appear to be a savvy fellow traveler. So, what should I use?


Remembering the elder half-sibling who had challenged him to memorize the Bible, who had inadvertently given him the tools to find this meeting, Lelouch promptly replied "Brother Alexander, if you please."


"Good to meet you, Brother Alexander," Phillip said, his flashing white teeth a sharp contrast against his dark skin. "You can share my Book for the service if you'd like?"


"Thank you," Lelouch replied politely, "I'd appreciate that." He looked down at the rough cement floor. "Pardon me for asking, but…" he gestured towards the unyielding surface, "are we kneeling on that?"


"Not hardly," Phillip chuckled. "There's a pile of old seat cushions in the back corner. Just make sure to put whatever you take back afterward."


As Lelouch returned to Phillip's side, an old cushion spilling foam from busted seams tucked under his arm, an old man hobbled his way down the last step of the stairs. Judging by the carefully cleaned and bleached Roman collar around his neck and the much-mended but fraying stole around his neck, Lelouch deduced that the old man was the awaited Father Timothy.


Or as Havelock and Charles might call him, Old Tim. Lelouch smiled, shaking his head. A schismatic priest conducting a bar trivia night! Splendid, splendid. Although, he reflected as Father Timothy coughed wetly into his sleeve, time has clearly not been kind to this old priest.


For all that he was old and infirm, Father Timothy's voice was still quite robust as he raised his hands in benediction. "Light and peace, in Jesus Christ our Lord," he declared.


"Thanks be to God," the crowd replied as one, Lelouch mouthing the time-worn ritual response.


"Bless the Lord who forgives all our sins," Father Timothy continued, before plunging fully into a rite that was apparently "An Order of Worship for Evening Prayer," according to the title splashed across the page Phillip had open in his dogeared tome.


Lelouch let the words pass over him, facing forwards and appropriately attentive as his eyes passed over the heretics in attendance. Almost half were female and all, to a man, were obviously poor. Of the twenty-seven people in attendance, not counting himself or the priest, fifteen were gray with age and only two children were present.


And yet, one thing all have in common is the yearning hope writ large across their faces. They are all hungry for hope, for meaning, for a reason to look forward to the next day. And that old, sick man at the front is giving them just such a reason, even though his presentation skills are nonexistent and he stands one foot in the grave.


There is so much potential here if I can tap into it…


"And now," Father Timothy continued, his voice rough and cracked, "a reading from the Book of Isaiah:


"How is the faithful city become a harlot! It was full of judgment; righteousness lodged in it; but now murderers. Thy silver is become dross, thy wine mixed with water; Thy princes are rebellious, and companions of thieves: Every one loveth gifts, and followeth after rewards: they judge not the fatherless, neither doth the cause of the widow come unto them. Therefore, saith the Lord, the Lord of Hosts, the mighty One of Israel, Ah, I will ease me of mine adversaries and avenge mine enemies.*


"The word of the Lord."


"Thanks be to God," Lelouch chorused with the rest of the audience as the sermon began.


"Brothers and sisters, I will keep this brief." Father Timothy paused with a weary smile. "As the eighteenth year of this new Babylonian Captivity comes to a close, the news is bleak at every corner. The usurper sits on his bloody throne and his confederates turn Mother Church into a prostitute, as they have for nigh on two decades now. Every day brings us rumors of renewed purges of the faithful, of new martyrs brought to the ravenstone and bound to wheel or spike.


"And yet, brothers and sisters, I implore you to keep strong in your faith and to cling onto hope. Every day that passes with some new atrocity or blatant malfeasance from the princes of men weakens their foundation, though they know it naught. Everywhere, nobles and wealthy men scheme and steal and exploit. I tell you, in doing so they salt their own fields, and future harvests will rot in their hands!


"Likewise, the liars who wear miters and vestments gorge themselves as their parishioners starve. For all that our people were desperate for stability, desperate for room to breathe, they will not suffer depredations at the hands of their intended protectors forever. As the churches grow empty and tithes wither away, the whores who call themselves priests will grasp ever more greedily, and in doing so dig their own graves.


"But," Timothy paused and smiled out at his tiny flock. "You know this already, brothers and sisters. You have heard it all before, and the knowledge that our enemies cannot stand forever is scarce comfort when your bellies are empty and our brothers in Christ writhe beneath the bone-shattering blows of the rod and squirm helplessly as their limbs are braided about the spokes of the wheel. I know. I understand.


"I shall not lie to you, brothers and sisters; I doubt that most of us gathered here shall see the Promised Land reborn, cleansed of the rot and inequity that so plague our beloved Homeland. I certainly shall not – death is in my bones, and I doubt I will be with you to celebrate Christmas. And yet, I tell you, there is hope yet! The True Prince shall come, the one who shall sit on the throne and drown the traitors in their own blood! He shall come to us as was promised, shall renew the holy empire as the true Kingdom of God on Earth!


"I know not when he will come, brothers and sisters, but I am ironclad in my certainty that he already walks amongst us, that he sees our suffering and hears the cries of his people. The perversity that Charles the Usurper has wrought upon us demands justice, demands retribution, and our God would not deny us an instrument of his will to balance the scales.


"And so I say to you, brothers and sisters, as the spring gives way to summer and new life buds and grows – have faith! Hold on, my people, for our Heavenly Father will not long suffer a liar to sit in His chair and speak in His name! As surely as spring shall give way to autumn and autumn to winter, all that is man shall rot and decay, and our dross will be turned back to silver once more! Our reading goes on to promise the restoration of Zion, of our Pendragon!


"Brothers and sisters, truly I tell you, she will be redeemed with judgment! She will be converted with righteousness! All who have forsaken our Lord will be consumed! Liar-king and corrupt cleric alike, both shall burn, and nobody shall be able to put out the spark!"


A wrenching cough ripped its way out of Father Timothy's mouth, interrupting his sermon. Lelouch took the opportunity to glance sideways at Brother Phillip; the man's face was enraptured, his eyes aglow as he stared at Father Timothy.


"The word of God," Father Timothy forced out as another bout of coughing interrupted him, "for the people of God."


"Glory to you, Lord Christ." The reply of the congregation was fervent, a new fire breathed into them in the promises Father Timothy had made.


And nothing that Old Tim said is necessarily untrue, Lelouch considered, turning the brief sermon over in his mind. The empire is unquestionably riding for a fall; it is most obvious here in Japan, where all of the symptoms of imperial rot run rampant, but Clovis is merely a symptom of a larger failing, a decay that stems from That Man and him alone. He emerged victorious from the Emblem of Blood, but the Empire as a whole certainly did not. For all that Britannia rules a third of the world, she sits upon a crumbling foundation that no amount of conquest can mend.


Another man stepped up as Father Timothy was given a glass of water to drink, and the congregation duly recited the Nicene Creed and chanted a brief hymn on the theme of light. Finally, Father Timothy recovered enough to deliver the closing blessing, and the service drew to a close as the congregation chorused a final "Thanks be to God" in reply.


After thanking Phillip for the use of his book, Lelouch made his way over to where Father Timothy rested, leaning against the wall beside the banner of the Anglican Shield.


"That was quite the sermon, Rector," Lelouch said politely. "It's been quite a while since I heard such a passionately full-throated lesson."


Admittedly, that is because I have not attended a service since before Mother's passing. It is not as if the Britannic Church fully shuns fire and brimstone, after all.


"Thank you, young man…" Timothy smiled amiably up through his beard, but the cool intelligence in those rheumy eyes was not lost on Lelouch. "I don't think I've met you before, and yet, you clearly are familiar with the proper ways."


"I am," Lelouch replied with a deft smile, "from another flock than yours, yet follow the same shepherd. Or, at least, I was from another flock. I relocated to Tokyo from the Hiroshima Settlement a few months ago."


"Ah, I see!" The old man smiled, although the smile again didn't quite touch his wary eyes. "I rejoice that you found your way to us. Now, pardon an old man's curiosity, but your accent… I couldn't help but notice the traces of Pendragon…"


"My father hails from Pendragon," Lelouch replied honestly, "although my mother is from Area 2. I lived in Pendragon before orders came down that sent my family to Area 11."


"Ah, that would be it," Timothy nodded. "Forgive an old man's curiosity. It's not as if Pendragoner accents are exactly rare – lots of us came from the Homeland, after all – but just that combined with the touches of an aristocratic tone…"


"No worries," Lelouch said jovially. "My father is from a very minor noble family, but only barely; grandson of a third son, you see. He tried to squabble against the main branch for the family holdings back in the day, which played a role in how we ended up in Area 11."


"Lot of that going around," the old priest mused out loud. "Well then, my son, consider yourself welcome here."


"Thank you, Rector," Lelouch replied politely, probing carefully for an edge to carry the conversation along.


This is the man to impress; the congregation was practically eating out of his hands. If his health is as bad as he said it was, he is also vulnerable and without a successor.


"Ah, no need for formalities," Timothy waved the title away. "I haven't been a rector since '98, when the diocese discharged me from my post for refusing to swear to the new rite."


"And you have been out of communion with the state church since then?" Lelouch asked. "Have you been underground since then, Father?"


"Of course!" Timothy wheezed slightly as an embittered laugh slipped out. "Eighteen years of sleeping rough and traveling quietly from place to place, of preaching in basements like the Catacombers of Old Rome. They chased me all the way from Bainbridge in Area 4 to Tokyo, my son! And I'm one of the lucky ones… Old Uncle Knapsack is very thorough, you know."


Lelouch nodded, recognizing the Four slang for a secret policeman of any affiliation. Someone who could cram you into his sack and make you disappear into the night.


"All the way to Tokyo from Cuba? That must have been quite the change, in climate if nothing else." Lelouch paired the joking remark with a smile. "Still, you must have run quite fast to have lasted so long underground."


"I suppose so," Timothy sighed, "although, as you heard, my running days are done. I can barely get around the Settlement these days, even with that nifty new train our fool of a governor built. These old bones just can't take the stairs or long walks like they used to, and my wind is completely shot."


"Well, if it would not be too forwards of me…" Lelouch began, sensing an opportunity, "can I offer my assistance? I have some education, courtesy of my father, on the intricacies of our faith, and I have youth and vigor as well. I understand that those are the primary qualifications to be a Lay Eucharistic Minister, and if I could assist you with your duties in that office, it would benefit the church in hiding here in Area 11."


"You make a good point," admitted Timothy, "and I do need help. Unfortunately, those with the time and energy here lack the education or the ability to move freely about the Settlement and beyond, which I understand you have. This is not, you understand, the only congregation I tend to; there are others, hidden throughout the Settlement and the countryside beyond."


"I had figured as much," Lelouch confessed, "or at least hoped. It would have been quite… saddening to have finally found my way back to the true faith, only to find that it had withered to a score and seven in all of the Settlement."


"It's not quite that bad, but…" Timothy shook his head. "That's neither here nor there. I no longer have the luxury to turn down any assistance offered, and… While I have only just met you, Brother Alexander, I am certain you are no police plant nor a spy. When the Numbers are running rampant over the countryside, I doubt they would waste such an intelligent young man on our dregs. If you are willing to take on Eucharistic Minister duties, I would be happy to have you."


"Thank you for demonstrating your faith in me," Lelouch replied, extending a hand. "I will see that you will not regret it. Tell me, when would be best for us to meet further?"


"Would you be willing to take a day trip out to Chiba this weekend?" Timothy asked, grasping Lelouch's hand with a dignified frailty. "There is a small gathering of the faithful out on the Boso Peninsula. If you wouldn't mind, they are due for the Eucharist this Sunday, and I would appreciate the aid. We meet at a tobacconist's, near the sewage treatment plant in Hamanocho, south of the barracks in Chiba City."


"I would be honored, Father," Lelouch said, releasing the old man's hand. "I will stand ready to help keep the fire alight until the time comes for dross to turn back into silver once more."


"Then go in peace, my son, and I'll see you on Sunday."


Milly was waiting impatiently for Lelouch back up in the almost empty main room of the Taphouse.


"There you are," she said with a smile, honeysuckle sweetness not quite covering the acerbic exasperation. "I thought you'd left and stuck me with the bill, but the bartender said you'd already paid up. Then I thought you'd somehow tripped into the toilet and had been flushed down the pipes with all the other turds, but nope, no sign of you in the bathrooms. Where the heck did you go, Leland?"


"Oh, you know, I just went to my father's house," Lelouch jokingly replied, momentarily relishing her immediate and obvious shock before continuing. "Well, not really, but something like that. I went to see a man about some silver. Hopefully not thirty pieces of the stuff. Do not worry, I will tell you more back at home."


"You had better," Milly retorted playfully as she fell into step beside him, "otherwise the engagement's off, Leland! I can't have a husband who keeps secrets from me."


"We are engaged now?" He turned to look at her, brow raised. "I am all but certain that, when I left to pay the tab, we were just out on a casual date. When did we get engaged?"


"That's what you get for zoning out on the conversation all night, Lulu!"


As he and Milly made their way back to the Academy, Lelouch found his mind drifting back to the congregation in that dirty brick basement. Unlike the crowd of workers in the neighborhood by the train station, these were desperate people already actively hunted by the authorities. They had very little left to lose at this point.


Which means they have everything to gain. And unlike economics, religion is a guaranteed hot-button issue. I made mistakes last time, but this time will be different. I will let Nunnally and Sayoko know, for one. Lelouch involuntarily shuddered, remembering the scolding he had received from his darling little sister after the poster debacle. And depending on what she says, I might bring Milly in on it too.


The plan went awry last time, but now… Things will be different. Britannia will fall. A new world for Nunnally. The True Anglicans are waiting for a True Prince to come? I can be that. This can work. It will work.


It has to work.


*(Copied from the King James Version of the Bible, Isaiah 1:21 - 24)

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 28: Grinding Responsibility


(Thank you to Sunny, Restestsest, Mitch H., Adronio, and MetalDragon for beta-reading and editing this chapter. Hope you enjoy this first chapter of 2023.)


JUNE 30, 2016 ATB
SHINJUKU GHETTO, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
1015


The sun beat down, the scorching heat undiminished by the tepid breeze rolling off the distant waters of Sagami Bay. Noon was still an hour and a half away and the true heat of the day wouldn't come until two hours after that, but it was already unbearable.


Spring, I decided, is well and truly dead.


At the very least, I could take solace in the fact that, as the de facto ruler of Shinjuku Ghetto, nobody expected me to haul chunks of broken concrete and twisted rebar to waiting wheelbarrows, as I had done in past summers. Indeed, using my authority, I had done my best to ensure that nobody else was expected to do likewise; all above-ground work had moved to a nocturnal schedule, to the rejoicing of all the work crews toiling within the encircling wall.


There were complaints, of course. No matter how universally approved any given decision might be, there would always be complaints. I was sadly aware that their presence was something of a fundamental axiom of society. There was no such thing as a hundred percent approval rating, not so long as those surveyed were free to speak and their words were accurately recorded.


Mister Nishizumi Tsutsumi, the source of many of those complaints, had managed to draw me out of the coolness of the Rising Sun Headquarters' basement before the evening hours, out into the unrelenting heat. Mister Nishizumi, or more properly, Councilor Nishizumi, represented almost a third of the northwestern district of Kamiochiai on the Council of Notables, the governing organ Naoto had set up to help him handle the management of Shinjuku. Since the elder Kozuki had left for the countryside, that group had rapidly become my personal nemesis.


Of course, if I were being honest, I really only had myself to blame for that particular metamorphosis.


"There he is, I think," Masatsugu, the leader of today's three-man security detail, said. "Looks like he's got four others with him."


"Any of them armed?"


The question was mostly pro forma. Of course Nishizumi would have armed bodyguards. Shinjuku had become drastically safer once the Rising Sun took full control over the entire Ghetto, but nobody with property worth stealing would wander around unarmed given any other option. As a Councilor, Nishizumi both had access to enough supplies to make him a potential target and, thanks to my attempt to garner legitimacy, no shortage of people willing to carry arms for him.


"Yeah," came the laconic reply. "I think two of them that I can see? They just have bats, though. Old baseball bats on their shoulders. The rest could have knives or whatever. You never really know."


"You never really do," I agreed, and winced at how tired I sounded. I would have to do a better job at injecting energy in my voice once I got within earshot of the Councilor. The man was a politician and would have no qualms about leveraging any perceived weakness. "Let's go say hello to the fine Notable, shall we?"


As it turned out, the first greeting came from the Kamiochiai contingent.


"Commander! Welcome to our little slice of heaven!" The Councilor's greeting boomed out into the street, empty under the baking sun save for our respective parties. According to Nagata, Nishizumi Tsutsumi had been part of Japan's Merchant Marine before the Conquest. The ex-sailor clearly hadn't lost any of his capacity for leather-lunged bellowing over the six years he had spent away from the sea. "It's damn hot today, isn't it?"


"Truly an excellent reason to spend the next hour in the Meeting House's basement," I agreed, returning his quick bow with an abbreviated bob of my own, running my eyes over his party. The two openly-armed men both wore Sun Guard hachimaki and presumably were members of the militia unit drawn from Nishizumi's constituency. Nominally, they were just as much my men as my security detail. Nominally. "So why are we still out here on this street instead of making our way inside?"


"Hey," Councilor Nishizumi, a deeply tanned man in his late thirties sporting a prematurely gray beard, replied with a joviality that rang false in my ears, "nothing wrong with the street! The boys have done a fine job with the repaving work!" The former merchantman paused, before adding, "Send my congratulations to young Kozuki, will you?"


"I'm sure he'd be delighted to hear from you, Councilor, as always." Deciding not to stand on ceremony as I traded barbs with the man, I swept past him and continued on my way towards the newest Rising Sun Meeting House, located only a few blocks away. "You might be happy to hear that I was, in fact, the one who ensured the repaving crews reached as far to the north as Kamiochiai. As such, I am very pleased to hear that you like the new roads."


The Notable was only a pace behind me, following me just as I had known he would. Behind us, his party - his two militiamen, an aide, and a boy a few years older than me who I assumed to be a message runner - fell into step behind my two trailing guards. A petty power play, admittedly, but so had Councilor Nishizumi's choice of meeting location. We could have met in the shadowy interior of the Meeting Hall, but that would have started the meeting in "my territory."


As if this entire city isn't "my territory," I thought with a repressed sneer. Some days, it feels like this city and its people are merely the Notables to toy with, to hold hostage to their whims, for all that they acknowledge my position. I swore that I would fight for an independent Japan; I didn't swear that I'd recreate the Republic of Japan in all of its maladaptive oligarchic glory.


Long ago, in a different life, I had read a line somewhere about how gratitude was the currency with the shortest half-life. Nothing I had seen from the Council of Notables in the two months since I had taken responsibility for Shinjuku and all those who dwelled within it had disproved that forgotten author's assertion. The gifts I had given and the privileges I had extended had turned into entitlements and sacred rights with remarkable speed. Those first few weeks, when the first and second shipments from Kyoto arrived, had been the good times.


From that highwater mark of cordial relations, my relationship with the Council of Notables had slowly degraded. Their willingness to cooperate had dwindled as the supplies allotted to their districts from the Rising Sun's stockpiles diminished, as had my willingness to tolerate their incessant wheedling.


I still didn't think that I had made a mistake when I had given the Council of Notables control over their home detachments of the Sun Guard. In a way, I had just formalized the current situation, while spinning the facts to suit the narrative that I was in full control of Shinjuku.


The Notables had been elected to the Council by the votes of electors, who were in turn nominated by the various tenements, blocks, and streets within each district. The Notables, therefore, were the local magnates, those with sufficient resources or influence to convince or cozen their district electors to vote for them. They were the people who the young men and women who made up the militia would naturally go to for orders or for help.


By recasting their de facto control of their people as the result of procedures and consensus beyond my decisions instead of the usual outcome of the human tendency to form hierarchies, I had turned that potential vulnerability into a tangible sign that I wasn't a power-hungry lunatic eager to consolidate power in my own hands.


That I was having enough trouble managing my responsibilities as it was without any further consolidation of power was not something I felt the need to share with the Council of Notables. They expected me to seize every scrap of power I could and had prepared to dig in to resist my encroachment once Naoto named me the authority in Shinjuku. They had told each other that my Britannian blood and tender years would make it inevitable that I'd go mad with power, that I'd prove myself just a gangster who had somehow manipulated the softhearted Naoto.


They didn't understand me, nor did they understand Naoto. Anybody who thought the elder Kozuki was softhearted was a fool; he was simply strong and wise enough to show mercy when he could and should. In truth, I envied his skill at diplomacy and political maneuver. Similarly, they misunderstood me. I had no desire to fight the Notables for power, and so, to their vast surprise, I had simply given it to them, a gift instead of a contest. Entrusting the Notables with their Sun Guard units outside of times of emergency had been the clearest way I could signal that the Rising Sun wasn't just a gang and I had no desire to be a king.


At the time, I had been hoping that such a clear signal, coupled with the free distribution of the food I had purchased with gang money, would lead to mutual cooperation and understanding. For a while, it had. Then, the first Notable had turned down my request to use their Sun Guard as a labor force for a specific project in another district. Another would only agree to a similar request if their district got an extra meal every day for a week, which would have decreased the amount available in all other districts. Battle lines were drawn in the Council.


Past that point, the rot of factionalism had begun to bite in earnest.


It would have been easy, so easy, to force a solution to this problem. The Rising Sun maintained its monopoly on coilguns and ammunition, radios and medicine, and most crucially, over the majority of the stockpiles of food, clothes, and construction materials. The Council of Notables was riven with internal divisions, and while most continuously connived, a distinct minority were loyalists who never asked for more or quibbled when I requested the use of their young people for the greater good of Shinjuku.


It would have been the Britannian thing to do.


Realizing that had been enough to show me the trap that temptation represented. Even with the best of intentions, coercing support from the people of Shinjuku would forever contaminate the public relations well and tarnish my name. I would set myself and my organizations apart as yet another oppressor in a line of oppressors, come to take and take. Once I crossed that line, even to guarantee unity among the governors of Shinjuku, it would be easier to cross it again in the future.


And once I reached that point, I might as well start dressing like a Britannian, because that's what I would be.


With that nightmare scenario in mind, I had set myself to a task I was ill-equipped for and heartily disliked: playing politics.


Which isn't even part of my brief! That was Naoto's job, his and Ohgi's, to a lesser extent! The whining was just as self-serving as any of the endless complaints from the Council, but in the private sanctuary of my mind, I had little compunction about delving into selfishness.


"So, Councilor Nishizumi," I began, slowing slightly to walk beside the man instead of a pace ahead, "what was it exactly that you wanted to inspect at the Meeting House?"


"Your man," the sailor-turned-politician began, "is being a real pain in my ass, Commander. He just came in here, took over the old Post Office, and started throwing his weight around! Considering how much crap your boys hauled inside, he must be sitting on a whole mountain of resources! As the Councilor for Central Kamiochiai, I wanna see what he's hoarding!"


By the end of his miniature rant, Nishizumi was practically spitting the words out; the last word, in particular, was like a curse in his mouth, and it was hard not to wince at the accusation. Given how desperate everyone was in the wake of the Conquest, even the mere accusation of hoarding was a matter taken very, very seriously in Shinjuku, both back before the Rising Sun had established hegemony and after.


"I can see that you are quite concerned about this matter," I began, trying to remember how Naoto had spoken to the Councilors on the handful of times I'd accompanied him to meetings, "but that doesn't sound like the Nagata Takeshi I know. I trust him and Kozuki Naoto trusts him; they've known one another for years, after all. I doubt he'd throw all of that away just to put the screws to you, Councilor Nishizumi."


To my irritation, only the reminder that Naoto trusted Nagata dented the Notable's hostile expression even slightly. "Even good men can have bad friends," Nishizumi rebutted, thankfully lapsing into silence as we approached the Kamiochiai Rising Sun Meeting House, where Nagata stood waiting by the door for us.


It was immediately obvious that there was no love lost between the two men.


"Nagata," I said, stepping out ahead of Councilor Nishizumi and greeting my lieutenant, "thank you for agreeing to meet with us today. I'm sure you're quite busy as it is."


"Commander," he acknowledged, and I tried not to wince at the title someone in the Rising Sun had slapped onto me. I suspected Inoue was the responsible party, judging by the way her lips twitched whenever someone used the title in her earshot. "I'm always happy to make time for you. I hope the trip all the way out here wasn't too bad?"


"A little heat won't stop me," I replied, full of false heartiness, which fell away as I continued. "Especially considering the… concerns Councilor Nishizumi has raised."


"Concerns, eh?" Judging by the way the Councilor's lips twitched, he had clearly intended to punctuate the sentence with a gob of spit but had thought better of it at the last moment. "Yeah, I've got some concerns, if that's how you want to put it. Commander," his voice rose, full of belligerent certainty, "Like I said, your man here is a hoarder! He's skimming off the top of the distribution for my district, for Central Kamiochiai, and keeping it squirreled away for his own use! Believe me!"


"I certainly believe that I've heard you say all that and more," I coolly replied, turning to look up at the former sailor, who stood a solid two heads taller than me. "Indeed, I believe that's why I'm out here this bright and sunny morning. I have heard your concerns and shared them with Nagata here. We three will inspect the measuring devices and the stores here at the Kamiochiai Meeting House and hopefully put your mind at ease in the process."


"Right," Nishizumi nodded curtly, his temper, for the moment, back under control. "And in the interest of fairness and transparency and such, you won't mind if my man Shun here," he hooked a finger over at the skinny man I had apparently correctly identified as his aide, "tags along as a witness, right?"


"Well," I said, smiling blandly up at the man, "I can certainly respect your love of transparency, Councilor Nishizumi, and fairness also. So, in the name of fairness, I think Nagata should be allowed to bring along a witness of his own, wouldn't you agree?"


Before the Notable could protest, I turned to Nagata. "Nagata? Would you kindly find us a witness and lead us to the distribution room, or wherever you're keeping the cups and the scales? Let's hurry up and get on with this."


That conversation more or less set the pace for the next hour and a half. As Masatsugu and my other two guards cooled their heels in the Meeting House's dining room in the company of Nishizumi's two guards and his messenger, I did my best to keep the peace between Nagata and Nishizumi as we examined the cups used to dole out rice and flour, the scales that weighed the measure of biscuit, and the larders that provided for the thrice-weekly communal meals.


Throughout the entire ordeal, Nishizumi took every chance he could to snipe at Nagata. The usually quiet and mild mannered Kozuki Organization member was uncharacteristically giving back just as much as he got, once even snarling at the Councilor in reply to some snide comment or another. While the root of their tension was still unknown to me, it was clearly a deeply personal and mutual resentment they shared.


Annoyingly, this was a situation that could have been avoided had I spent more time with the individual Councilors before or, for that matter, if I'd shared more one-on-one time with Nagata in the last several months. In my defense, I had been busy and Nagata had fully capitalized on his return to Shinjuku to spend as much time as he could with his wife and little daughter, Ami and Yukari respectively, and before he had left Naoto had done a fine job managing the Council.


But perhaps if I had shown more interest in the lives of my subordinates and in the network of social grudges and alliances in the Council of Notables, this whole situation could have been avoided!


It was an unhelpful thought, self-castigating and based on speculation about the hypotheticals. Yes, it would have been helpful to know that Nagata had a long-standing grudge against the man who represented a third of the Kamiochiai District before I had put him in charge of the new Meeting House distribution point in that area. Yes, perhaps I should have asked the three Councilors who represented the district for their input on the Meeting House and its staff.


But what was done is done, and I was thoroughly sick of trying to manage the pair of them. But, while neither Nagata nor Nishizumi had endeared themselves to me lately, it rapidly became apparent that Nishizumi had no evidence of any embezzlement from the Rising Sun's supplies on Nagata's part beyond vague claims about "what everyone knows", nor did the inspection of the measuring devices find any indications of tampering.


"You saw it yourself, Councilor," I said, trying to keep my tone level and my frustration off my face. "We looked all around the Meeting Hall. Every room was made available for your inspection. No signs of any hoarded supplies, no signs of rigged cups or unfair scales. Unless there's some further evidence you can supply, I will insist that you recant your accusations against Nagata."


"Like hell I will!" The former merchantman's stentorian was deafeningly loud in the lobby of the post office turned Rising Sun building. "Mark my words, Commander, that man is a slippery little shit! He's stealing from you, he's stealing from me, and more importantly he's stealing from my people!"


"Don't blame me for your own failures, Councilor. " Nagata retorted, his face an ugly mess of blotchy spots, his fists tightly clenched at his sides. "Just because you can't keep your own house in order doesn't mean I'm sabotaging you. Unlike some people I could mention, I don't need to stoop to gangsterism to earn respect!"


"You little shit!"


At Councilor Nishizumi's bellow of rage, I took the opportunity to physically step between the two men, forcing them to separate or shove me aside.


"Enough!" I barked, all but snarling with barely contained frustration. The voice of authority, honed on the Prussian parade grounds and Alsatian battlefields, effortlessly cut through the chaos of the argument like shrapnel through a teenaged draftee. For a moment I stared down both men, cowing them into silence with the unspoken weight of my displeasure. The armed members of my security detail looming behind me were an unnecessary afterthought as the two squabblers fell silent, neither able to maintain eye contact with me.


"Nagata," I said, starting with my old ally and friend. The ex-plumber's arms immediately snapped to his sides as he stood at attention, the lessons from The School making themselves known. "The Rising Sun never lacks work for idle hands. Kindly take this opportunity to start working on preparing your staff for the next distribution. Handling those matters is your responsibility; I will handle things here."


For a moment, I saw defiance flicker in my subordinate as his eyes darted to the Notable beside me, almost aglow with simmering rage. Thankfully, that rage wasn't quite enough to make Nagata forget himself; he took a breath, held it, and let it go. "...Yes, Commander."


Nishizumi looked like he was going to make a parting crack as Nagata left, but thankfully he caught my quelling look and kept his mouth shut. For now, at least.


"Councilor Nishizumi," I began again, my voice not nearly as level as I would have liked, "I understand that you have personal business with Nagata, and I understand your commendable dedication to the welfare of your district. However, unless you have evidence that he has actually committed some wrong against you or yours, I insist that you cease making accusations against him."


Before the inevitable angry rejoinder could come, I continued in a more conciliatory tone. "I won't ask for an apology, as that seems like a bridge too far. And, if you can actually provide evidence," I spread my hands, as if I was accepting something from him, "I would be more than happy to see it. I think we can all agree that while we struggle under the boot of Britannian oppression, betraying each other for greed and selfishness is among the most intolerable of crimes.


"And you don't like Nagata? Fine. He is a valued friend of Naoto's, but I won't force everyone to bow and scrape to him just because of his personal connections. We're not Britannians, after all, desperately trying to pad our fragile egos." I paused as I gave him an opportunity to respond, levelly meeting his hostile gaze. After the Councilor proved himself wise enough to not take the obvious bait, I continued. "If you have a personal problem with Nagata, that's between the two of you; I'm not your mother and I won't force you to kiss and make up.


"But," I growled, "When you make your personal rivalry my problem? When you waste what precious time I have with your nonsense and petty animosity? When you waste all of our time dragging us out to some warehouse in order to grandstand to a captive audience? Well, now you have entirely exceeded my personal capacity for patience. So, I am telling you now to stop making this my problem. Settle matters between yourselves or get over it. If there is actual theft, bring me evidence that I can use. Solve your problem, or I will solve it for you, and I assure you that you will neither like nor enjoy my solution."


I paused, looking for any sign of give in Councilor Nishizumi's deeply tanned and lined face. "Am I understood?"


Councilor Nishizumi's jaw clenched, and for a moment I thought he would actually take a swing at me. The old sailor loomed over me, glaring down and all but demanding that I submit. I refused to look away or step back, and for a long, silent minute, we teetered on the edge of escalation.


Then, the big man subsided. The old merchantman slipped away and the politician swam forwards to take his place. "Oh, I understand you," he agreed readily, and for all that his voice was level and his volume approximately normal, his tone was only a small step above a growl.


"I thank you very kindly for your wise advice, Commander." Nishizumi's expression was closer to a pained grimace than anything recognizable as a smile. "I can see why young Kozuki entrusted his city to your just rule. So, you want evidence, do you? Fine. That's fine. I'll make sure you get all the evidence you could possibly need to see your way clear to giving my people what's theirs and getting that thieving rat well away from me."


"If such evidence exists," I confirmed, nodding slightly but not breaking eye contact for an instant, "I will review it objectively and follow up on it if I find any indications of rule-breaking, hoarding, or embezzlement."


"Good, good." The Notable's reply came out in a horrible almost-crooning sing-song, his smile frozen and immobile on his face as if it had disconnected from the mind behind it. "Of course, I never had any doubts that you'd do any less, Commander."


"I know exactly what my duties are." I didn't bother to keep the snap out of my voice. "I know exactly who and what I fight for. The people of Central Kamiochiai are not forgotten. Nor are their interests. I will not stand for anybody in my organization to impede or misrepresent those interests, just as I will not permit any factional division while we live under the Britannian hammer."


"Of course you wouldn't," Councilor Nishizumi cried out, mocking horror at the very idea. "After all, there's no way that young Kozuki's substitute would ever stoop to something so unjust as separate standards or crass nepotism! Certainly not. After all," he continued, a smirk curdling on his lips, "there's certainly no way a fine young lady like yourself would ever stoop to something so… Britannian, now is there?"


More posturing followed, but I stubbornly refused to rise to the bait or give the Councilor the satisfaction of knowing any of his barbs had found purchase. I kept my eyes fixed on the tiresome old man's until his bluster finally subsided, when he gathered his small party and at long last made his exit, all the while making none-too-subtle threats about nebulous "evidence" he would present at the next gathering of the Notables.


I waited until Councilor Nishizumi had left the Rising Sun Meeting House before I called for Nagata.


Despite all of the morning's efforts, the issue of the Kamiochiai Meeting House and its relations with the local Notable remained open. Between the inspection which had turned up nothing of note and the Councilor's own words, it was abundantly clear that the question of unfair distributions was a mere pretense for a more personal quarrel, one I hadn't been aware of before I'd blundered into it. Such, I had found out to my great annoyance, were the ways of politics.


No wonder Naoto had been so eager to shift it all onto my shoulders.


And yet, like it or not, it was my mess to clean up as the only meaningful authority in Shinjuku. I would do my best; to do anything less would be to betray myself and all of the work of my comrades and coworkers. But to resolve this irritation, one among many, I needed to learn where its roots were, so I could rip it out entirely.


As it turned out, they lay in infuriatingly shallow soil.


"He was Ami's boyfriend when I met her four years ago," Nagata said, answering my question immediately and without further prompting. "They were together when I met her, and she left him for me."


"I see." I nodded, grasping for reasonability. "And there wasn't any overlap, was there, Nagata? No possible reason why any third party might reasonably conclude that either Ami was cheating on Mister Nishizumi or that you stole her from the man? Assure me that much, please."


"The relationship was all but over already," he protested, although I saw guilt flash across his face for an instant. "She was already planning to move out before I even met her! She told me that they were through and she was leaving him, so I went ahead and took my chance!"


"...So that's why he accused you of theft, is it?" I sighed. "This entire mess, all that shouting, all over some stupid soap opera tier relationship drama?"


"To be fair to Mister Nagata," Masatsugu put in from where he stood by the only door out of Nagata's office, on the second floor of the Rising Sun Meeting Hall, "Nishizumi's a piece of shit. He used to be a sub-boss for the Kokuryu-kai, back in the old days. Once the Purist fuckfaces broke them up he spun his group off into their own gang, the Oni. They were bastards then and they're still bastards now. I don't blame Miss Ami for ditching his old ass."


"I didn't ask for your input, Masatsugu," I replied, turning on him. Seeing my bodyguard's scarred face, a thought occurred to me. "Weren't you in a gang too, Masatsugu? Who was your boss?"


"You killed him," he replied with a broad grin. "Well, not you personally, but me and my crew were King's Men."


I quickly ran the name through my mind, trying to remember where I'd heard it before. "One of the Kawadacho gangs, right? That was the group who used to control the Refrain trade in Shinjuku, wasn't it?"


"That's the one," he confirmed. "But, well… You know how the big boys used to operate, right? The difference between 'core' members and the rest of us, yeah?"


In my mind's eye two groups of gangsters forced their way into a communal dinner, ready to steal our food and anything else that took their fancy. One group was as well fed as any Japanese in the Ghetto, their hair bleached blonde and sporting shoddy imitations of Britannian fashion. The other group was a pack of wretched-looking men: their clothes were almost as ragged as everybody else's, and only the scarves wound around their arms and the knives and bats in their hands announced their status as gang members.


"Indeed," I managed a half-smile at the man. "Well, I appreciate your willingness to work for me now. I am sure that, with your help, the Rising Sun will continue to climb ever higher into the heavens. I appreciate you braving the heat and joining me here for the express purpose of wasting your morning."


"Yes, Commander!" His salute was full of vigor yet sloppy, a gesture he had seen others do and tried his best to emulate. I had selected him for his current duty based on that keenness, and though he didn't know it yet, his place in one of the upcoming School cohorts was guaranteed. Keenness aside, the glowing respect and pride I saw in his eyes when he looked at me made me uncomfortable.


I was respected by my companions and friends in the Kozuki Organization, both the old Kozuki Cell members and the men and women I'd trained with at The School. They knew I was a capable individual, and treated me as such. That said, they'd also seen me when I screwed up, when I was weak, when I was vulnerable, and so none of them looked at me with the hero worship I could see glowing in Masatsugu's eyes.


Except for that one evening when Naoto saw my magic… I shuddered and pushed that memory away. It had been profoundly uncomfortable to see adulation on my leader's face as he gazed upon the fire in my hand.


I turned away from that uncomfortable reverence, back to the familiar territory represented by Nagata's stoic face. "Let me know if Nishizumi tries anything, Nagata. I'll send a unit or two of Sun Guard from other districts, just to help out on some projects in the area, for the next few days. That ought to send a message."


"As you say, Commander," Nagata nodded attentively, clearly relieved that I wasn't delving any further into any potential misdeeds he might have committed against Nishizumi.


I was tempted to tell Nagata to knock it off with the title, that he'd known me when I was Tanya and that he'd more than earned the right to call me by name.


And yet, I thought, I'm not just Hajime Tanya now. I'm Commander Hajime, head of the Shinjuku Rising Sun. Cringing away from that helps nobody, and if embracing the title and authority helps keep other parasites like Nishizumi in their place…


I returned his nod. "Best of luck with next week's distribution, Nagata."


---------


Back at the Rising Sun Headquarters, the original Meeting House and distribution center in the Waseda District of central Shinjuku, I had another meeting to attend. Thankfully, it was conducted inside and over lunch, a welcome break from the heat of noon.


"Alright," I said, pushing the empty rice bowl away and bringing the chatter to an immediate halt, "let's get started. We're all quite busy these days and we've got a lot to get through, so please keep your reports short. If I want further detail, I'll schedule a follow-up so everybody else won't need to hang around."


My six lunchtime companions nodded in a chorus of bobbing heads. This little assembly consisted of an equal number of skilled experts and picked members of the Sun Guard militia whom I felt had shown enough responsibility to shoulder a few of the tasks I could delegate. Much like the Sun Guard, I had fished the experts from the sea of humanity constrained within Shinjuku's enclosing walls.


Taken together with the currently absent Inoue and Nagata, they constituted my Leadership Commission.


The first to speak was one of the experts, a scrawny man even by the malnourished standards of Shinjuku by the name of Junji. Before the Conquest, he had worked at the Japan Broadcasting Corporations' FM radio station servicing the western parts of Tokyo Prefecture as a technician, in charge of maintaining and repairing radio equipment. In recent months, he had become the backbone of our expanding pirate radio network.


"The Gunma Relay is up and functional again, as of yesterday," Junji said, starting the meeting off on a high note. "Seems like it was just a wiring issue, easy enough to fix that I was able to walk your man there through the process via text. I should warn you," he continued, his tone dipping as he tried to convey the gravity of the matter, "the parts issue still needs to be addressed. We can only stretch what we have so far."


When the Rising Sun's activities had been all but entirely confined to Shinjuku, it had been easy to conceal our communications. We had used burner phones and cryptic word choice to reduce the chances that any Britannian intelligence officer monitoring cell traffic in and near the Ghetto would be able to piece our operations together, but that strategy had relied mostly upon the protective camouflage of a city's worth of communication obscuring our handful of calls and texts.


Now that the Rising Sun had begun to spread out into the rural areas of central Honshu, spearheaded by Naoto and Souichiro as Ohgi and Tamaki kept an eye on The School, relying on luck and Britannian laziness was no longer acceptable. Cell traffic, routed through Britannian telecom companies and their cell towers, was too risky. Which was when Junji had brought himself to my attention.


The former radio technician had heard that I was looking for new routes of communication and had placed his professional experience at my disposal. Indeed, he had been practically giddy to tell me everything he could about operating a radio network, which unfortunately led to a lengthy lecture heavily laden with technical details that were, broadly speaking, entirely lost on me.


But more importantly, Junji had come through with a connection to some shady Honorary Britannians with unspecified access to a warehouse full of last generation radio equipment, all second-hand from various commercial stations upgrading their equipment to the current models provided by some noble monopoly or another. Thankfully, Junji's connections had been all too eager to sell whatever outdated surplus equipment we needed at very reasonable rates.


And, after the first shipment had arrived, Junji had set to work with gusto. He had been eager to return to indoor work without any heavy lifting after weeks of helping to pack new insulation into the freshly repaired crawlspaces of various tenements around Shinjuku, although he had been less happy when I told him that his technical expertise had landed him a post on the newly-organized Leadership Commission.


Within weeks, antennas began to appear throughout the Shinjuku Ghetto, each connected to concealed receivers. So far, our crude little network was quite small and almost entirely confined to Shinjuku. Five transmitters, each broadcasting on a different frequency, were scattered around Shinjuku, with the nearest located in a building down the street from the Rising Sun's headquarters.


More recently, Ohgi had managed to get his own receiver/transmitter established in an abandoned farm near The School. Unfortunately, his gear lacked the range to communicate directly with us, so a team had been dispatched to install a relay in a small shack on the slopes of Sakurayama, just over the Gunma-Saitama border.


"Your concerns are noted," I replied, nodding to Junji. "Money's tight, but I'll reach out to my partner to see if he's got anything in our price range. Feel free to ask around yourself, by the way. Surely someone's worked as a janitor in one of the Britannian stations or whatever. If they know about anything easily stolen, bring it to me and I'll see if it's feasible."


Junji nodded and sat down, his report apparently completed.


"I suppose if we can talk to Naoto and Ohgi again, we can pick up the pace of the evacuations?" I turned to the woman next to him, one of the Sun Guard militia officers I'd picked out for special attention. "What are your thoughts on the matter, Lieutenant?"


The title sat uneasily on the shoulders of the recently dubbed Lieutenant Ichiya, who very much lacked any sort of military bearing. And yet, I had dropped that title on her anyway; the Kozuki Organization and its appendages had reached the point where a formalized chain of command was necessary. Even though Naoto, Ohgi, and I were handing the ranks out more or less as a matter of fiat, all three of us had agreed to insist they be respected. So far, nobody had pushed back against the rash of sudden promotions.


This lieutenant in particular had the dubious honor to be the point woman for one of the Rising Sun's most ambitious projects to date: The steady evacuation of as many people out of Shinjuku Ghetto and the Tokyo Settlement as possible.


"It'll definitely help, being able to talk to Gunma again," Lieutenant Ichiya said, belatedly rising to her feet as she realized that everybody else in the room had turned to look at her. "I mean, I guess that's pretty obvious, but it'll really make things easier, especially when some people get lost or whatever. Which, you know, happens, especially during the night handoffs."


Five weeks ago, I had sent out several volunteer units of Sun Guard to establish way stations on the route Naoto and I had agreed upon between Shinjuku and his current location in the mountains north of Takasaki. The way stations traced a line from Asaka just over the Tokyo-Saitama prefectural border to the outskirts of Honjo, just south of Takasaki, and each had hiding spots for two or three trucks and up to one hundred tightly packed people.


Ever since the last way station was finally established - at Ogawa, in Saitama Prefecture, after the original station was discovered and destroyed by the local Honorary Britannian auxiliaries - up to a hundred people every night had slipped out of the Ghetto, following paths through derelict subway tunnels and sewers under the Ghetto walls and out into the surrounding Settlement, where waiting trucks carried them to the first way station.


"Broadly speaking," Lieutenant Ichiya continued, "things are going about as well as we could reasonably ask for. I mean," she grimaced, "shit happens. Trucks break down, someone has a heart attack, whatever. But, the important part is, there's no sign that the Brits have realized anything's up. The only time we've run into anything like a patrol was just a pack of traitors, and they were happy enough to take the money once the driver told 'em a baron up north had bought the cargo."


She's getting better, I thought, noting how the lieutenant's hands barely shook at the mention of traffickers. Hopefully, she continues along that trajectory. A less jumpy officer would be ideal.


Lieutenant Ichiya had earned her promotion by stepping up from Chihiro's crowd to take her leader's place in her absence. Almost as soon as Chihiro had left the Ghetto, I had begun working to reintegrate her free company back into the main Rising Sun organization, starting by giving Ichiya her rank and handing her responsibilities that extended past the several hundred freed slaves who had fallen into Chihiro's orbit.


Now I nodded at my officer's report, impassive despite my anger. Not at the lie, but rather because the fact that the local Honorary Britannian police had accepted it implied that it hadn't been the first time they'd stopped a truck loaded with Japanese. And the drivers probably weren't lying, most of those other times.


Sometimes, it was very difficult to remember why I had continued to lobby against the general desire to kill any Honorary we could reach. Intellectually, I knew that excising however many percent of the Japanese population who had taken up oaths to the invaders was counter-productive, especially in a theoretical post-independence state, even more so when that percentage represented the bulk of the recently educated population. Emotionally, though…


Remember, I told myself, if you could have taken up the oaths and become an Honorary Britannian, if that path had truly represented a better life with upward mobility, you certainly would be on the other side of that line now.


"Very good," I said, nodding at the lieutenant. "Keep up the good work. Let me know if you need further resources, besides-" I raised a quelling hand, seeing the words already forming in her mouth, "besides the usual rations and such. Inoue said she found a contact who'd recently come into possession of two shipping containers worth of Britannian Army ration packs, so hopefully that will be handled for the next few weeks, at least."


Lieutenant Ichiya subsided with a curt nod, and I moved on to the next person waiting. "Miss Tsuchiya, do you have anything to report?"


The teacher gave me a wan smile as she stood to address the room. I'd spoken with the woman a handful of times since we'd first met back in April, the latest of which had been when I had requested her presence on this Commission. All of those conversations had unfortunately been quite stilted and awkward for both of us. Miss Tsuchiya clearly didn't know quite how to interact with me, someone the age of her students yet a major political figure, and speaking with her always reminded me of things and times I'd rather not think about.


Her invitation to sit in on some of her classes with my age-group peers still hung between us. She had reassured me once that the invitation would always be open, should I choose to accept it, but despite thanking her I had never felt the impulse to go. Frankly, I didn't know how attending a middle school level class could possibly benefit me, considering the memories I carried of my previous lives' educational experiences.


And besides, I thought as I smiled encouragingly at the former educator, the head of both the embryonic Shinjuku Educational System and the vocational training program, I have no desire to see the children of Shinjuku, or, rather, the other children of Shinjuku. Life in the Ghetto with all of its daily tragedies is depressing enough without seeing all of those too-old faces. I see that enough in the mirror… Or without seeing those children with their parents… With their mothers.


Just brushing up against that word brought a familiar stinging pain and an upsurge of memories. Despite the time, they were still as sharp as always, as difficult to handle.


It's like a broken tooth, I considered, or some exposed nerve that I just can't help probing every now and again. Every time I do so, it hurts, but I just can't quite leave it alone.


Thankfully, despite my earlier admonition, Miss Tsuchiya seemed in no hurry to speak, so I didn't miss any of her words with my woolgathering. Perhaps she had been waiting for my focus to return to her, some teacher's instinct informing her that her intended audience wasn't quite ready yet to learn, but it was only when she saw my infinitesimal nod that she began.


"The recruitment program is outpacing my expectations," she began, glancing down at her notes to check her figures. "It seems like my fellow educators are quite eager to return to their professions. As of this week, I have managed to secure the services of sixty-four primary school instructors, thirty-five secondary school educators, and seventeen college-level lecturers with varying specialties. I've also managed to find fifty-three early learning and childcare specialists who were willing to help run a kindergarten program as well.


"On the vocational training front," Miss Tsuchiya flipped to a different page in her notebook and took a second to refresh herself on the figures before looking back up to meet the collective gaze of the room, "it's been a bit harder going since many of the prospective instructors are otherwise engaged with the construction projects and the like. Still, I managed to find a number of electricians, plumbers, and carpenters willing to teach. I've also found a few former nurses who are willing to conduct first aid classes as well."


"Junji," I said, turning back to the radio technician, who had been taking the opportunity to make headway into a second helping of beans and rice.


He startled to his feet at the sound of his name, gulping down his mouthful. "Y-yeah?" He got out, licking a few errant grains from his lips to the general amusement of the gathering. "What's up, Commander?"


"Get in contact with Miss Tsuchiya and get some classes scheduled," I instructed, ignoring the unprofessional sniggering echoing from certain corners of the room at the radio technician's expense. "Your skills are too valuable to live solely inside your head. Besides, this way you'll have other people to foist handling tech support questions off on, not to mention extra hands to help carry the load as the network expands."


When I'd begun, Junji'd had a distinctly uncooperative expression plastered across his face. At the implication that he'd no longer have to walk unskilled Shinjuku residents turned rural guerrillas through the basics of radio set-up and maintenance, he brightened visibly. Then he paled, as some new and terrible thought dawned on him.


"Wait, but…" I gestured impatiently for him to continue. "Does that mean I'd have to… to teach those classes?"


"Yes," I said, not entirely without sympathy. "I know, public speaking can be a hassle. But, we all have our sacrifices to make for the Cause."


He nodded resignedly at that and retook his seat, turning his attention back to his food as I turned my attention back to my very own Minister for Education, if on a tiny scale. "Thank you for your report, Miss Tsuchiya. Please keep up the recruitment efforts. Have you had any success finding usable textbooks in Japanese?"


"Not much," she admitted, before adding "but I'm still looking, Miss- I mean, Commander Hajime. I'm sure I'll turn something up eventually. They… They can't have burnt everything." Her mouth tightened. "I hope…"


In my mind, Naruko Tenjin Shrine burned again, the last place of worship in Shinjuku gone up in flames as the last doddering priest of the Kami bled out in a gutter two streets away.


They certainly could have, I thought, seeing a similar awareness writ across Miss Tsuchiya's face, after all, mere Numbers have no need of culture and less need of books and educational materials. And besides, even if the Britannians hadn't burnt every remnant of Japan in their reach, who would prioritize keeping books safe and dry over six years' worth of flooding, fire, and rot? Especially when even wood for cooking fuel was so scarce…


"I'm sure you'll find something eventually," I said, deciding to outwardly buy into the optimistic dream of some hidden cache of Japanese literature waiting to be rediscovered in the Ghetto, "and I'll pass a message to Naoto, asking him to keep his eyes peeled for any books he might find out in the rural villages. In the meantime, why don't you set those professors you dug up to the work of putting something together for use until more books are found?"


The look on Miss Tsuchiya's face was almost pathetically grateful, and I didn't know if it came from the understanding and support I'd extended, or if it was because I hadn't brought the cruel hammer of reality down on her head. Either way, she humbly ducked her head and thanked me before sitting back down.


As with seemingly every interaction I had with the woman, I felt wretched immediately afterwards. Ohgi should have been here; he was a teacher as well and could speak to Miss Tsuchiya as a peer, without all these... complications.


It wasn't that Miss Tsuchiya was unpleasant, or that I found speaking with her a burden, as much as it was that I had difficulty handling what she represented. With her teachers rested the last hope of saving some part of our fading and torn culture, to preserve what it was to be Japanese in the minds of the young. The hope that the people of Shinjuku would have a future beyond a life of hard work and drudgery, a future that extended past walls pocked with bullet holes, a future where people would have the time and freedom to sit and read, to learn, to develop new ideas that weren't chiefly concerned with guaranteeing that tomorrow would come.


Sometimes, it was very difficult indeed, to keep that hope alive. The hollows under Miss Tsuchiya's eyes were a wordless testament to her own private troubles and worries. In her obvious gratitude for even the crumbs of support I could offer, I could plainly see how tenuous her own hopes for the future were.


Pointedly turning my face away from Miss Tsuchiya, I moved on to the first figure seated on the other side of the table.


Asahara Hiyashi was just as I remembered him from our first meeting, in the waning days of last November. The engineer looked like a man from a different world, or perhaps a different time. In his fifties, he was at least ten years older than anybody else in attendance, and his smug, almost haughty expression betrayed no concession to six years of hard living in Shinjuku, nor the loss of the lower half of his left leg. For all that his crutches rested against the wall behind him, his neat button-up shirt and slightly stained tie made it look like he had just stepped out of some pre-Conquest office to join our meeting.


"Mister Hiyashi," I began, my tone coolly respectful, "how are your projects progressing? Anything to report?"


"Nothing worth my time," he grumped. "Nothing particularly difficult to manage, except in terms of scale and the need to explain every last thing to the work crews."


"But you are still making progress despite that impediment, I hope?" I knew the answer already; the stench of new asphalt hung over the length and breadth of Shinjuku like morning fog. Every entrance to old subway tunnels was a hive of activity, and buildings with particularly spacious basements were hubs for foot traffic in and out.


"Yes, yes," Mister Asahara replied, his wave impatient. "Things are well in hand. Just over half of the old subway tunnels are navigable now, and those should be sealed against the worst of the wet for when the rain comes back. As for the air raid bunkers, we crossed four hundred of them yesterday. Keep in mind, though, that they won't do a thing against a direct hit."


"Noted," I replied in the same desultory tone as he'd spoken in. "We just need places where noncombatants can hide, not a bunker fit for the Prime Minister, if we still had one. How are the nest installations going?"


The "nests" fell into two broad categories, but both referred to specifically strengthened and fortified rooms in the many cadaverous, unevenly canting buildings across the Shinjuku skyline. The nests at or just above street level had been reinforced with concrete slabs and piles of sandbags; if the Britannians pushed into Shinjuku in earnest, each would be manned by Sun Guard or Kozuki Organization rifle units. If I could get crew-served weapons out of the Six Houses, some of those low-altitude strongpoints would become machine-gun nests.


The high-altitude nests were comparatively skimpy, just rooms that had been lined with thermal blankets to baffle the infrared scanners built into Knightmare FactSpheres, with heaps of sandbags at the windows to provide some additional cover for those inside. These locations would, if necessary, become the haunt of smaller kill teams equipped with long-range scoped rifles and any shoulder-launched anti-armor or anti-air weapons I could shake loose from Kyoto's pockets.


"They're fine," Mister Asahara replied shortly. "They're completely useless at the moment, since you don't have anything to put in them and your militia are too amateurish to be effective, but at least hauling sandbags up twenty flights of stairs gives the men who aren't doing anything productive something to do."


That comment earned a round of angry muttering from the three militia officers present, but a quick glare at the trio brought them back to grudging silence.


"Thank you for your insight, Mister Asahara," I said, not letting an iota of sarcasm reach my voice. "Now, about the special project…?"


"All handled, don't worry about it." For the first time at this meeting, a smile flickered across Mister Asahara's face. "Anybody stupid enough to pilot a Sutherland in is gonna get what's coming to them, assuming your boys aren't asleep on the switch." For a moment, the old engineer looked almost wistful. "It's been fun, doing something that actually has a bit of scale for a change. After fiddling with pressure cookers and pipe bombs for years, it's a nice return to form."


And what, I wondered, was that form you so clearly long for, if building wire-detonated anti-vehicle mines and carefully setting them in recesses in the roadbed below the fresh pavement represents a return to it?


I didn't vocalize that question, partially because I knew I wouldn't get a straight answer, and partially because I could tell he was desperate for someone to ask so he could pointedly not answer.


Damned drama queen.


"I rejoice for you," I replied, my dry response in lieu of asking the baited question. "Anything else to report?"


"Not in regards to the work," Mister Asahara replied, elegantly moving on from the unasked question and almost managing to fully conceal the quick flash of disappointment. "But, I do have something else I need to speak to you about. Preferably, alone."


And there's my post-meeting appointment, I suppose.


I nodded my assent to his request, and the one-legged engineer relaxed back into his chair. "Nothing further, Commander."


Ignoring his smirk at my title, I nodded at the militia officer sitting next to Asahara, a lanky specimen with closely cropped hair and a face disfigured by a long, ropy scar that slashed a line from the center of his forehead down along the bridge of his nose and across his lips, terminating at the chin. Even ignoring the badly healed cut that divided his features into two, his face was particularly spare, as if someone had boiled all the fat away from under the skin. Perhaps that had been a further result of his disfiguring injury, some fever melting away at him from the inside.


Without further prompting, Lieutenant Koichi stood. Unlike Lieutenant Ichiya, the man didn't seem to find his new rank discomforting in the slightest, standing easily in a position approximating parade rest. "Commander," he acknowledged, lowering his head slightly in a suggestion of a bow. "Nothing extraordinary to report. Of course, should you wish further detail…" His voice trailed off suggestively, hinting at a wealth of data at my disposal.


Very comfortable with his new standing indeed, I mused, meeting Koichi's eyes. For all that his injury left his face nearly immobile, his eyes were lively, expressive and thoughtful. Perhaps a bit too comfortable, now that I think about it.


Lieutenant Koichi's special unit of Sun Guard drew from the militia units of several different districts, but most came from the areas of Shinjuku with the longest history with the Rising Sun. In fact, some of his men and women came from the same tenement I'd lived in with Naoto and Ohgi. Many of them had previously assisted Naoto with his "special work", the details of which had only been made clear to me after Naoto had left for the country.


While the newly formed special unit had the same hachimaki tied around their foreheads as all other Sun Guard units, they also wore navy blue sashes over whatever else they happened to be wearing, setting themselves apart from their comrades. Initially, I had planned to institute an armband, but changed my mind when I remembered that the common way to display gang loyalty had been scarves of the gang's colors tied around the bicep.


Considering the work the special unit, the Internal Affairs Force, would be handling, anything that spoke of gangsterism had to be avoided to the greatest extent possible.


Especially since the IAF, with the most loyal of the various Sun Guard units in its ranks, is the closest thing Shinjuku has to a police force now. I tried not to frown at the thought. And yet, thief-taking is only their secondary duty. Their main job is to make sure that all of the mutterings don't turn into action. For that, if for no other reason, Lieutenant Koichi is well placed to act as their chief.


"Let's schedule a meeting for tomorrow," I replied, mentally penciling the appointment into my schedule. "We can go over your details in greater length then, without detaining everybody else present."


The intact corner of Koichi's mouth flicked up at that, amused by my choice of words. "As you like it, Commander," the policeman nodded, settling back down into his chair. "Just let me know where and when."


"I will," I assured him, before moving my gaze to the last member of the Commission in attendance. "Lieutenant Fumiaki, what news do you have from the missions to Ibaraki and Kanagawa?"


"A mixed bag, Commander."


Lieutenant Fumiaki was another of the seemingly endless crowd of hardworking men who populated the Ghetto, all callused hands and careworn faces. Unlike most of those hard workers, however, and unlike everybody else in the room with the exception of myself, Lieutenant Fumiaki, also known as Jo-on, was a hafu. Born to a Korean father and a Japanese mother, the lieutenant had the good fortune to look almost entirely Japanese, something that I could have resented him for if it wasn't for his easy charm and eternally buoyant personality.


"We've been hearing daily reports back from Yoshi and the boys you sent to Ibaraki," he continued, correcting himself by hastily adding "Captain Yoshi, sorry. But," he continued, "communication with Yokohama's been decidedly more spotty. I don't think we've heard from Lieutenant Chihiro in at least four days or so. And even before that, we hardly heard at all from her and her lot."


Well, that has the potential to be quite worrying.


It was difficult to decide what was more likely, that Chihiro had encountered some enemy action or adverse accident that had destroyed her capability to communicate with us via any one of the number of burner phones she'd left Shinjuku with, or if she had simply pitched another temper tantrum. Either way, it was bad news. While I cared little for Chihiro or her welfare, I had sent two of her more vocal allies along with her, and as their leader, I had a duty towards them.


That said, there's only so much I can do from Shinjuku. I have neither the time nor the freedom to take a day trip down to Yokohama.


I do have the freedom to send someone in my stead, however.


"Someone, find a trustworthy messenger," I said, scribbling a quick note to Inoue on my notepad to entrust one of our portable receivers to the bearer of the note, "someone who knows how to drive. Tell them to pick up a radio and whatever they need and get out of Shinjuku. Once they're out, they're to steal a car and head south, but be careful! The Britannians mustn't know. Ask Inoue for where she thinks Chihiro set up. If they can't find the lieutenant in a day or three, they're to turn around and head back home."


Lieutenant Ichiya all but snatched the note from my hand and hustled her way out of the room. Considering her personal connection to Chihiro, I was unsurpised that she volunteered for the duty.


Hopefully she doesn't add a secondary message of her own. The thought was reflexive paranoia. Even if Ichiya was keeping Chihiro privately updated, it didn't particularly matter. Not yet, at least.


Either way, the matter was settled for now. Putting the issue out of my mind, I turned back to Lieutenant Fumiaki with a polite smile. "So, what does Captain Yoshi have to say for himself? Is he enjoying the fresh salt air?"


"This time of year?" Lieutenant Fumiaki asked with a smile. "I know I sure would, Commander! Beats the Tokyo heat, hands down. But," he said, sobering back up, "it sounds like he's made some further progress since his last update. While he's not exactly been heavy on the details for obvious reasons, he wanted you to know that the 'fish are in the sea,' if that means anything."


Indeed it does, I thought, allowing a smile. It means that Yoshi's made excellent progress indeed.


I had sent Yoshi and his squad of trained Kozuki Organization soldiers to Ibaraki accompanied by two squads of Rising Sun men for two reasons, three if I included Naoto's claim that seeking the blessings of the gods enshrined on the coast would bring us good fortune. The first reason was to set up a subsidiary Rising Sun branch in the prefecture north of Chiba and to recruit more soldiers for our cause among the fishing villages and harbor towns there. The second reason was to seek out and contact the smugglers operating out of those same coastal settlements.


The phrase 'fish are in the sea' meant that he'd finally come to an agreement with at least one smuggling crew that he felt was reliable enough to be good business partners. Based on his previous reports, the crew in question was probably connected with one of the numerous Triads who worked hand in glove with the Chinese government.


The Chinese represented a sea of opportunities matched only by the net of practically inevitable entanglements those opportunities came with. And like the sea, Chinese politics represented an almost entirely unseen depth of unknown dangers and cold secrets. To say I was hesitant about forming even tentative connections with the Chinese would be an understatement; for all that the remnants of the Republic of Japan's government had fled to the Chinese Federation and formed a government-in-exile, I was under no illusion that the Chinese would be any more kind to us than the Britannians.


On the other hand, if I'm already willing to go to bed with collaborators, why not foreign powers as well?


"That's good news indeed, Lieutenant," I said aloud, nodding at Lieutenant Fumiaki and fully aware of how Lieutenant Koichi was staring fixedly at my face, clearly trying to suss out whatever clues he could about the Ibaraki Operation. It was outside his brief and so he had no real need to know, but that he was curious nonetheless was obvious. "If there isn't anything else?"


"No, Commander." With that, Lieutenant Fumiaki dropped back down into his seat, pulling the remains of his lunch back towards him. A practical man, he clearly had no intention of letting anything in his bowl go to waste.


"Well, on that high note," I rose from my chair, painfully aware that I was the shortest person in the room as I stood at the head of the table and yet remained shorter than everybody else there except for Miss Tsuchiya, "thank you all for attending this meeting. I appreciate all of the hard work you put into your responsibilities, and I expect nothing less than that level of dedication moving forwards. You are all free to go, although I believe you had something we needed to discuss, Mister Asahara?"


Recognizing their cue to leave, the other four men and women said their goodbyes and made their way out of the private room on the second floor of the Rising Sun Headquarters. After Lieutenant Koichi - predictably the last to leave - closed the door behind himself, I turned back to the engineer again, waiting to hear whatever it was he had that required privacy.


"You'll be having a visitor soon," said Mister Asahara, his tone brisk and matter-of-fact, stripped of his usual condescension. "In fact," he continued as he checked his watch, "you can probably expect her to show up at the Yotsuya Gate in thirty minutes."


"Right," I said, scanning his face for any subtext that I had overlooked, any nonverbal hints. There was nothing but the usual scowl. "So, let's skip ahead a bit in this conversation and assume that we've done the usual polite conversational dance. I assume that the need for privacy is because you are announcing this guest not as a local engineering expert, but rather because you are the agent of Kyoto House placed closest to me?"


"I wouldn't know about that," he demurred, "but you are correct in the basics, Commander Hajime. Your business partners back in the Old Capital requested that I bring this to your personal attention, in large part because you will be held directly responsible for any misfortune your guest might come to."


Damn that pack of old geezers! Why would they send someone they didn't consider expendable to a place like Shinjuku? They might as well have sent their precious and uninvited guest into the heart of Niigata! In fact, I snarled to myself, keeping my face as stoically blank as I could manage, sending some hapless old fool into Niigata might have been safer, now that the Purists have broken the spine of the popular uprising!


Wait… An uninvited guest… That could be my way out!


"I don't accept that responsibility," I said, speaking just as bluntly as Asahara had when he'd leveled Kyoto's latest threat. "I did not invite the Six Houses to send an emissary, nor did they send adequate warning for me to even consider guaranteeing security. Besides, we in Shinjuku have precious little, as you well know, Mister Asahara, far too little to provide hospitality to any visiting guest from Kyoto."


"Don't bother trying to convince me," came the unfortunately unsurprising response. "I'm just the messenger; I have absolutely no say in the Houses or their doings. I'm not asking you if you're willing to accept a guest. I'm telling you that a guest is going to show up on your doorstep any minute now, and if anything happens to her, it'll be on your head."


At least he has the grace to not make any pretense of an apology, I thought with an internal grimace. Still, I suppose this isn't much different than the worthless president of some company demanding a job for his worthless nephew. In fact, if any of Kyoto's ilk existed back in the Japan of my first life, I would bet anything that they made exactly that sort of demand on a regular basis.


"Fine," I sighed, giving in to the inevitable with bad grace. "So, I've got a guest. Who is he, what does he look like, and how long is he going to be around? Should I set aside a toothbrush for him as well, or was he able to find a place in his bags for his own?"


Suddenly, the image of a fat old man dressed in Britannian finery striding through Shinjuku popped into my mind, followed shortly by the likely reaction of the locals to the appearance of such a fool in their midst.


"Wait," I said, speaking up just in time to cut off Mister Asahara's reply, "please, please Hiyashi, tell me that this idiot guest of mine brought their own security. Tell me that they didn't just walk through the Settlement alone and unarmed, and are even now flashing a large amount of cash in front of the very buyable guards posted at the gate's checkpoint."


"I could tell you exactly that," said Mister Asahara, visibly amused, to my great annoyance, which clearly only amused him still more. "And indeed I will. Your guest has their own security, Commander, and the security will handle the gate negotiations. As for the rest, though?"


Asahara's lips quirked up into a smile under his salt-and-pepper mustache. "Send one of your fine lieutenants with an honor guard to the gate, Commander. You don't need any other answer from me; I don't know what your guest wants or how long they will be here, but I do know that there's absolutely no way your militia will mistake her for anybody else."


An angry retort died stillborn on my tongue as I picked up on the subtle emphasis the engineer had placed on that last pronoun. "Her?"


---------


Tea had been procured from somewhere, and likewise a variety of cookies and sweets. The second-hand tea service now sat in pride of place in the center of the same table I'd conducted my recent meeting around, clean enough to shine despite the numerous chips missing from the pot and mis-matched saucers alike.


And now that those minor details had been handled, I had nothing else to distract myself from the nervous energy coursing through me.


Impatiently, I rose to my feet and paced another lap around the room for the fourth time in the last ten minutes, checking my watch as I circled back around behind my chair. Assuming nobody was running late, Lieutenant Koichi and his detachment of picked men from the Internal Affairs Force should be meeting the emissary from Kyoto on our side of the Yotsuya Gate at any minute.


My handheld radio remained stubbornly silent, though, as it had for the last ten minutes since Koichi had relayed the news that he'd taken up a waiting position a block away from the checkpoint.


Why am I wasting my time like this? More to the point, why am I letting myself get so worked up over this?


It was a reasonable question. In my first life, I'd gone into meetings with senior vice presidents and directors free from worry, confident in myself and my place. In my second life, the periodic encounters with the likes of General Zettour had been undeniably stressful, but that stress had stemmed from the awareness that they could order me to the Front or to a prison cell at any moment. While this new stranger from Kyoto undeniably had power over me, it couldn't match the same level of authority wielded by the Empire's generals.


And yet, while I am undeniably stressed, I am not afraid… I paused, another lap around the meeting room behind me, and pursued the thought deeper. No, I don't fear this emissary from the fence riders in Kyoto. She can make any threat she likes, and in doing so will just undermine her position and that of her organization as reliable business partners. No, it isn't fear…


It was, I realized after a further moment of contemplation, anxiety. While that sensation was a close cousin to fear, it wasn't quite the same. I didn't fear angering my unasked-for guest. The prospect of miscarrying my first interaction with a member of the secret cabal's ranks, of appearing like some foolish, out-of-her-depth child in front of this potentate…


At the mere thought, I wiped my suddenly sweaty palms dry on my pants.


You are worrying about nothing, I scolded myself. You are just engaged in pointless, self-sabotaging behavior. You have negotiated with the Six Houses before and achieved your goals.


…But that was back before Naoto left.


And that was the heart of the matter. Somewhere along the way, I had made an undeniable mistake, and that mistake had continued to tumble down on my head as I made blunder after blunder. The interaction with Councilor Nishizumi this morning would have been unthinkable, were Naoto here; not unthinkable that a politician would use his power to pursue petty grievances, but unthinkable because the noble's son would have soothed the man weeks ago with a disarming comment and some personal mediation between the Notable and Nagata.


In contrast, my own efforts had been crude, and while I had successfully punted the confrontation off for another week or so, I was under no illusion that I'd heard the last from Councilor Nishizumi. Making matters worse, that confrontation hadn't happened in a void. I had staggered forwards for the last six weeks, doing my best to hold things together and fully aware that the current state of affairs could only last for so long.


This wasn't supposed to be my job! The wail sounded pathetic, even inside my own head. Naoto was supposed to be the political leader while Oghi handled the minutiae of internal affairs and administration!


Unfortunately, the triumvirate I had worked out with Naoto and Oghi had of late, for a number of reasons, begun to come apart at the seams.


While my conversations with Ohgi had been short and stilted of late, that had been a function of the radio we were speaking through. Despite the heavy buzz of the static and the constant "overs", the former teacher was always a joy to speak with, cordial and supportive and willing to listen as I complained about the Council or the other hundred headaches that came from running Shinjuku.


We had fallen into a bit of a routine of trying to find some item of good news we could exchange with the other during each of our conversations. He had been overjoyed to hear that I had reached out to Miss Tsuchiya and never failed to ask how the plans to re-establish the educational system in Shinjuku were progressing. In return, he had passed on the news of how he had prevailed upon Major Onoda to requisition a mortar and sufficient ammunition for training purposes at The School.


Despite this, there was only so much Oghi could really do to help me. He could advise me on particular matters, what benefits modifying some internal policy might secure or how to best satisfy some stubborn faction's demand, but he couldn't teach me his skills as a mediator and trusted voice. Not for lack of trying, but the radio and our busy schedules made such lessons impractical. Besides, he'd been away from Shinjuku for long enough that his grasp on the local politics and personalities had slipped.


With Naoto, the conversations had been equally stilted yet entirely free of the easy comfort I felt with Oghi. Naoto was cool and businesslike, his tone clearly audible even over the radio interference. Ohgi called me Tanya; Naoto referred to me as Commander Hajime. He didn't protest when I referred to him by name, but he never reciprocated.


The reason for the new reserve between us was the furthest thing from a mystery, even though we never addressed it directly. We never spoke about Kallen. She hung heavily in the conversational air between us, her presence glaring in its absence.


Kozuki Naoto, twelve years older than his baby sister, had always been Kallen's steadfast protector and had always done whatever he could to keep her from harm. I'd overridden him once before on that matter when I had sent Kallen into Shinjuku-gyoemmae Station. He had barely accepted that brief and one-sided engagement. It had only been in the face of my reason and Kallen's fervent passion that he had caved at all, and even then it had been the one time Naoto had ever threatened me.


And now, I had thrown Kallen into a prolonged deep cover project, seemingly on an impulse, without even consulting him. While I had explained my logic after the fact, once he and his mother Hitomi were well on their way to Gunma, the leader of the Kozuki Organization had acknowledged the logic of my choice over his phone, not bothering to conceal the icy anger he clearly felt. Hitomi had refused to speak with me.


Thankfully, Naoto was enough of a professional to remain in contact, updating me about the progress he had made in establishing hidden enclaves and refuges for the fleeing people of Shinjuku throughout Gunma, Tochigi, and Fukushima. He passed on word of the setbacks he experienced, of the villages discovered by patrolling Honorary Britannians, of the vanloads of refugees ambushed by bandits, of the difficulties of making farmers from ghettoized city dwellers. He accepted my condolences with cool politeness and my advice with demure disinterest.


I had passed on word of my troubles in Shinjuku to him as well, albeit just the bare facts of the matter, stripped of emotion. Naoto had been receptive to my worries, but it had felt like I was speaking to a mere coworker; his suggestions had been vague and half-hearted, his expressions of solidarity mere platitudes.


I worried that I had permanently damaged our relationship.


But it was still the right call to make, I told myself. A chance to infiltrate an agent into a cadre of Knightmare pilots in training would have been difficult to pass up, but a chance to infiltrate an agent into a cadre of Knightmare pilots in training who were also being groomed for leadership was impossible to ignore. Once she returns to us, Kallen will be a precious resource of institutional knowledge and skills, stolen from the classrooms of the strongest military in the world!


And, a colder part of my mind, a segment shaped by cutthroat office politics and sharpened by the dispassionate calculus of the War College, remarked, If all it cost to acquire that edge was a single personal relationship, then I secured a true bargain, cheap at that cost.


Even if the cost is Kallen's life or the lives of a hundred Kallens… It would still be cheap.


Even though the part of me that had stood watch on the Rhine and had calmly watched Arene burn knew that statement to be true, another part of my mind recoiled against it. It was the part of my mind that had reeled in numb horror when Manabu and Sumire had died, the same part that had mourned the slaves killed in the crossfire back at the club in Shinjuku. The same part of me that had admitted that the members of the Kozuki Cell were my friends in truth, not just useful tools.


Everything had been so simple, back then, I thought, ludicrously nostalgic for the time when I had been near starvation, where seemingly any problem could be resolved with my knife and adequate creativity. Hard, yes, but simple. Fight against the gangs, make new connections, scrounge for food and money and weapons…


Besides, I reminded myself, you knew getting Britannian-trained Japanese soldiers for the Cause would be a fraught business. Sacrifices would have to be made for such momentous gains, that much was never in doubt.


Admittedly, I conceded to myself, I had expected to recruit from the members of the Honorary Britannian Legions, who would recognize their true loyalties and bring their training with them when they crossed the line. I hadn't anticipated ordering anybody into Britannian service.


A knock at the door returned me to the present. "Commander," came Lieutenant Koichi's voice, "are you ready? Your guest is here."


"Yes," I replied, internally marveling at how steady my voice was, the anxiety of minutes before dropping away as if it had never been there at all. "Come in, please, Lieutenant. Don't keep our guest waiting."


One of the lieutenant's detachment was the first man through the door, his spotless sash incongruous over his battered and much mended gray t-shirt, a Britannian rifle slung over his shoulder. As he stepped into the meeting room, he turned on his heel with an almost military flair and took up a position by the wall, as smoothly as if he'd practiced that move for a week.


Which, considering how worryingly passionate Lieutenant Koichi is about his newly awarded rank and duties, he might very well have.


The next man through the door was what the Britannian-aping gangsters of the Eleven Lords and the Kokuryu-kai had wanted to be. He wore a tailored suit with a matched tie and pocket square, both in a tasteful mahogany, and only his Japanese features and association with Kyoto House betrayed his Honorary Britannian status. A bulge under his jacket, flattered into near invisibility by clever adjustments to the suit, hinted at a concealed pistol. Following the Internal Affairs Force man, he took up a position by the wall on the opposite side of the door.


An impressive choice of guard, I thought appreciatively, noting the economy of motion and the way the man's eyes roamed over the room, searching for hidden threats and ways of ingress with a professional's detachment. I had briefly wondered if Kyoto was really treating this meeting with the gravity Mister Asahara had implied, but the obvious quality of the guard put such thoughts to rest. Anybody they sent this man to watch over is clearly someone of value, someone who can make decisions or can speak directly with those who do.


And then a girl only a few years older than me all but skipped through the door, utterly incongruous compared with the two men who had preceded her. I closed my eyes, but when I opened them, she was still there, neat as a pin in her tweed two-piece suit and smiling at me.


For a moment, I wondered if I'd suffered some sort of mental break. Ah, I thought, my face cracking into a wry smile to answer the girl's own radiant expression, so this is how it feels to be on the other end of the introductions. I've always wondered if it was really that shocking to see a young girl in a leadership role, and, now that I've seen it from the other side of the table, I suppose I have my answer.


Then, I remembered how it had felt to always be greeted with incredulity, astonishment, and all too often, a surprising degree of hostility. In my second life, it had been a continued source of private irritation to me, that no matter what I accomplished and no matter what respect my deeds might garner, so few of my fellow Imperial officers would take me seriously in face-to-face meetings.


Looking closer at the girl, apparently Kyoto's emissary since all I could see behind her were a second suited security man and Lieutenant Koichi, I could see signs of a similar concealed frustration. For all that the energy behind her smile seemed sincere, the expression itself was an unnatural thing, fixed and carefully practiced.


It's her chosen armor, I realized, just like how my past insistence on Imperial professionalism was mine. Only, for all that my age and gender made me a vulnerable target, my undeniable power as a mage and War College credentials gave me tools to push back instead of just holding the line via personal presentation. That damnable Silver Wings Assault Badge helped too.


"Welcome to Shinjuku," I said, bowing over the table between me and the visitor in greeting. "On behalf of the Rising Sun, I sincerely hope that you had a safe and easy journey here."


"It is good to be here," came the reply, and for a moment, I was back in my first life, visiting the Old Capital in all of its ancient majesty. The Kyoto Dialect, slower than Standard Japanese, harkened back to a different time and a different Japan, just like the city itself did. I hadn't heard anyone use it in my time in Shinjuku, except perhaps for the call with the Kyoto bigwig.


It was a relic of a past world, a Japan from before the Republic, never mind the Conquest.


"Yes," she continued, and I realized that she had approached the table without my notice, resting her hands over the back of the nearest chair, "it is indeed good to be here. I have been eagerly awaiting the chance to meet you, Commander Hajime. Although, would you take offense if I called you Miss Tanya? At least," she giggled, "when it is only us girls talking."


The moment dragged on for just a bit too long, and I suddenly realized that it was my turn to speak.


Focus, dammit! You're fucking it up again!


"Excuse me, but," I coughed, gesturing at the three men lining the walls, and Lieutenant Koichi where he stood in front of the door to the room, "just us girls is a bit of a stretch, wouldn't you say? But, I'm not one to stand on ceremony. If you want to call me by name, I don't have any problem with that…?"


I trailed off, leaving the meaningful silence hanging, waiting for her to offer me a name. It would be a false name, almost certainly, as the Six Houses were secretive by necessity and by nature, and I doubted any of their higher-ranking members would give out such information freely, no matter how young they were. Still, I needed something to call this envoy, and I didn't want to accidentally cause offense by simply assigning her a name.


"Lady Sophie," the girl promptly replied in Britannian. Despite the fact that her pronunciation of the language was perfect, almost as if she were a native speaker of the tongue of our overlords, it still sounded like an abomination after the smooth tones of her Kyoto-ben. "But," she continued in our language, "you can call me Kaguya, though! Or Lady Kaguya if you really must. The last name is not important."


"...Charmed," I said, gesturing for her to take a seat as my mind whirled. "Lady Kaguya, would you please join me for some light refreshments? I'm certain it won't live up to your standards, but some tea's always nice after a journey, no matter how safe and easy it was, yes?"


"Ooh, please!" Kaguya clapped her hands, her expression abruptly joyful as she slid into her seat. "Here's a real Six Houses secret, Miss Tanya," Kaguya, smiling slyly, said as her guards tensed. "I have a really huge sweet tooth! Whatcha got, huh?"


I blinked, trying to keep up with the sudden hairpin turns in Kaguya's presentation. First the shift from Kyoto Dialect straight to Britannian, and now her high diction was abruptly abandoned in favor of a speech pattern that wouldn't have sounded unnatural among the attendees of Miss Tsuchiya's classes, all refinement vanishing. As I pushed the tray of sweets over towards Kaguya, I noticed her guards relaxing now that her so-called "secret" had been revealed.


The fact that they tensed up at all over any such revelation is an interesting hint, I considered as Kaguya devoured a third of a cookie in a single ambitious bite. Clearly, even though Kaguya is important, she isn't the only person these men report to. Equally clearly, someone else gave them orders to intercede if Kaguya crossed certain lines. Interesting indeed.


"So," I began, trying to take some level of control over the conversation back, "I have no wish to seem ungrateful for your company, Lady Kaguya, but I am very surprised by your presence here. Not that you are unwelcome here in any way," I quickly added, "but I am accustomed to dealing with your organization through intermediaries and interlocutors."


"These are some good sweets, Tanya," Kaguya replied, thankfully after swallowing her current bite. "I'll have to remember to send you some yatsuhashi once I get back home in thanks!"


"I… would certainly appreciate it," I said, speaking slowly as I poured over her words, searching for a hidden meaning that I suspected wasn't there at all. "I haven't had yatsuhashi in quite a long time."


Not since my first life, in fact, when someone gave me a box as a souvenir gift.


"Don't tell Lord Taizo or Lady Annabeth," Kaguya stage-whispered, leaning in over the table like some conspirator in a play, "but I don't really like them very much. I know they're traditional and all, but they're just not sweet enough to really scratch the itch, you know? Now, these," she hefted a store-bought chocolate chip cookie, taken from the supplies Inoue bought to distribute among the take-home boxes for families with children, "are really good! Do you have more?"


"...Yes," I replied, trying to match the two names to anybody I remembered from the news, or from Diethard's reports. Neither rang any bells. "I'm sure we can find some more for you to take home with you if you so choose."


"Yay!" Kaguya cheered, reaching for another cookie. "Seriously, Miss Tanya, you've got no idea! It's always 'look out for your weight, Kaguya,' or 'it's not ladylike to eat cookies, Kaguya' or something! You're a real lifesaver!"


"I am, of course, happy to be of service to the Six Houses," I replied politely, trying to figure out what the point of this baffling visit was. Certainly, it wasn't just to eat cookies. Surely someone of the young lady's status and wealth could go to a Britannian store and buy her own if she was so hungry for the damned things, instead of scarfing down the limited quantity we had expended scarce resources to purchase. "Perhaps if you explain more about what brings you to Shinjuku today, I could be of even greater service?"


"Ah…" And suddenly, Kaguya's eyes had turned unaccountably shifty. "Well, there were several items of business I needed to handle in the Tokyo Settlement, you see, and since I'd be in the area…"


"...You decided to drop by for a social visit?" I asked, finishing my visitor's explanation for her as it trailed off into silence.


"Absolutely!" And suddenly Kaguya was all smiles again, nodding in energetic affirmation for a moment before catching herself. "I mean," she said, starting again, "recently, there has been much discussion about the Rising Sun Benevolent Association and its sister organization. As I was in the Tokyo Settlement already, I felt I could improve my understanding of the situation with a private fact-finding trip of my own." And then, the smile was back. "Surely you don't mind, Miss Tanya!"


"Not at all," I replied, the smile tight against my face. "I am, of course, eager to assist the Six Houses in any way possible. After all, we both strive towards a common Cause, don't we?"


What a disappointment. It's highly unlikely that this Kaguya has any real responsibilities or input on Kyoto House's policy if she's got sufficient freedom and time to swan off to Shinjuku on a whim. Even a treacherous conspiracy apparently has deadweight members. Still, even though impressing or pleasing her will likely gain me nothing, angering her could still shift the Six House's general estimation of the Kozuki Organization unfavorably.


"In that case," I said, falling back on old memories from my first life about how to handle important pain-in-the-ass clients, "would you like a tour of Shinjuku? I can't say that we have a great deal worth seeing, and certainly nothing that could compare to your own lovely city, but if I can assist your fact-finding trip, I would be happy to guide you myself."


This time, all four of the men lining the walls shifted uneasily, and I felt a twinge of sympathy for their obvious distress. The last thing the Kyoto House personnel wanted was for their principal to just go strolling through the crowded streets of Shinjuku along an unsecured route; it was a security nightmare, especially considering the number of weapons and people accustomed to violence contained within the Ghetto's walls. For the Internal Affairs Force men, I was sure they were both concerned about my personal security and leery of allowing outsiders to poke and pry into our efforts to rebuild Shinjuku as a fortress.


I crushed that sympathetic impulse relentlessly. Impressing Kaguya is of tantamount importance; the only thing more important is keeping her safe from harm. While keeping her in a locked room would be second only to kicking her out of the Ghetto as far as fulfilling the second condition goes, it would constitute a failure of the first condition. Both security teams will just have to suck it up and do their jobs despite the unreasonable demands.


"Well…" And the wheedling tone was predictably back. "I mean, I am sure it would be lovely to explore your city, but it's simply too hot for a fair maiden such as I to venture out at the moment… So why don't I just stay in here with you, Miss Tanya?"


Kaguya smiled like the sly child she was, clearly accustomed to wielding her childishness as a mace whenever it was convenient for her. I smiled back, for lack of anything else to do. It was galling how little control I had over this conversation. Yet, for all that Kaguya was obviously directing this dialogue towards some end, she was still acting cagily, her eyes flickering to the two suits standing by the wall.


Clearly, the girl from Kyoto wanted something and only the presence of her guards, perhaps more accurately described as her minders, and her own sense of propriety was stopping her from voicing her demands. Equally clearly, I would have to be the one to figure out what those demands were and meet them, were I to bring this meeting to anything like a satisfactory close.


"Well, that suits me," I said, giving conversational ground before her with a smile I hoped was graceful. "I'm not really a fan of going out into the heat of the day myself, not if I can avoid it. But," I eyed the sweets tray, all but stripped of its load, "I'm not sure what insight you'll be able to glean about the Benevolent Association or the area it administers from here, especially since I seem to be out of cookies to feed you."


She giggled at that, a disarming gesture that made me want to smile along with her.


This girl is an obvious politician, I thought from the reservoir of cool reserve behind my pasted-on smile. I know that she's actively manipulating me towards some end, and yet I still feel the impulse to do whatever I can to make her smile. She must be some favored daughter or niece of one of the Houses, wanting for nothing and spoonfed politics and manipulation from childhood.


"Oh," Kaguya said, smiling fondly at me from across the table, "I think I can get plenty of insight into your organization from right here, Miss Tanya." She sipped her tea, smiling with a delight that was surely feigned, considering the fact that the tea was just the bagged stuff the Britannians used, instead of the loose leaves or matcha a scion of the traditional Kyoto elite would prefer. "So, why don't you tell me about yourself, Miss Commander Hajime Tanya?"


She has, I realized, something like the same charisma that Naoto has. Some benefit of an aristocratic background? But Naoto didn't have an aristocratic childhood, as he was a bastard officially unrecognized by his father, and he stayed in Japan with his mother. Maybe it's just the confidence that comes with knowing you are born into a powerful family, then? She doesn't have the same raw magnetism, but she's spent a long time honing what advantages she has.


"Well," I began, my eyes glued to Kaguya's features, hunting for any minuscule facial movements that might give me some insight into what, exactly, she was fishing for, "you already know my mother's family name, because I carry it as well. My mother was Hajime Aika, and she…"


I paused, remembering Kaguya's age. She might have two years on me, but definitely not three.


"...She did as circumstances forced her to preserve both our lives," I continued. "I never knew my father, except that my mother claimed he was a Britannian sailor."


"Don't worry about censoring yourself, Miss Tanya," Kaguya butted in, and I realized that the flush of interest was mixed with well-hidden irritation. "I shouldn't really need to tell you, of all people, but being of a young age and of the 'fairer sex' doesn't mean that I can't handle ugly truths."


So, I thought, turning that little outburst over in my mind, that's part of what she's looking for. She hates being treated as a child, despite her willingness to use her child status to her own advantage. But, "I shouldn't need to tell you," hmm? Interesting… If I'm correct, that might partially explain why she's here taking up my afternoon.


"Fine," I snapped, letting my control slip just a little bit for added verisimilitude. If she wanted to know 'me' and wanted an unvarnished 'true' version, I would be happy to cater to her desires. It wouldn't require any lying, just emphasizing a different part of my life's story than what I'd usually prioritize in introductions. "Let's start again, then."


"My mother, Hajime Aika, was a prostitute before and after the Conquest, selling herself to make ends meet and keep me fed and in school. My father was a worthless Britannian merchant sailor who hopefully died years ago. When the Britannians came, our lives went from bad to worse. I was forced out of school and we were both forced from our homes and into Shinjuku Ghetto before the walls around it were even completed."


Kaguya's attention was almost palpable, her eyes rapt and locked onto mine. For a moment, I almost let myself fall into the verdant green of her gaze. I noticed that tiny flecks of gold seemed to float on top of the green as if some mocking creator had set her superior social status and wealth into her very genes in cruel contrast to my own lowly, threadbare existence.


"My mother paid our rent with the only currency she had available," I continued, "and usually made enough for us to both eat a meal each day. It was barely enough to keep us alive, so I decided to join the workforce as best I could.


"By the age of seven, I was spending the bulk of my days on the work line, trading ten to twelve hours of hard labor for a bowl or two of thin soup and clean water. And even with those mean wages, I had to compete for those jobs with all of the other kids in Shinjuku. Of course, people being people, my hair and eyes guaranteed that I would only get work when no other alternative presented itself."


A pattern that holds true to today, I thought with an internal chuckle. It wasn't funny in the least, but it said something unpleasant about my people that it had taken all of my work and sacrifices for them to overlook my mixed heritage. And even now, if they had an alternative, I am sure a fair number of the Sun Guard and most of the Notables would be all too happy to dispose of me and my services.


"Sometimes, some foreman, softhearted or softheaded, would give me an extra ration; sometimes, some kind adult on the line would share their meal with me. Mostly, I did my best to work hard enough to justify my presence there, next to the adults, hauling away rubble and garbage and, when winter came, corpses, all for disposal."


From the corner of my eye, I noticed the Internal Affairs Force man's eyes go wide at that little revelation. My seasonal employment on a hauler crew wasn't something I mentioned very often; while the corpse disposal crews served a necessary and valuable role, transporting the dead from the streets and tenements of Shinjuku to the Ghetto's dump site near the Kawadacho Gate, nobody liked them for obvious reasons. Nobody wanted to think that their beloved would be buried in a landfill, unburned and disrespectfully interred with the garbage.


"I did what I had to do," I said, forcefully and entirely unapologetically. "Just like my mother did what she had to do to keep us both alive. And somehow, amazingly, we both managed to remain alive until I was eleven."


The familiar wave of pain hit just as I had anticipated, but I still managed to keep my face stoically blank. It was one thing to tell my story to amuse some flighty noble girl in search of a taste of authenticity; it was another thing to display my private pain for a stranger's titillation.


After she left, I would permit myself to feel. Until then, I was on the clock.


"I don't know who killed my mother," I admitted, the words cold and sour in my mouth. "She often worked in the brothels frequented by Britannian soldiers, and she was beaten to death in the street outside of one of those establishments. Perhaps it was a dissatisfied customer and his squaddies, perhaps it was just a pack of drunken thugs hunting opportunistically. It could even have been a local group of thugs, angry that she was sleeping with the enemy. I never bothered trying to find out; it didn't seem to matter. Done is done, and I doubt anybody involved in her murder remembered her face two days later."


How about that, I thought uncharitably, eyes fixed on Kaguya's. Is that unvarnished enough for you? Enough of a glimpse at how the rest of us live to scratch your voyeuristic itch?


For her part, Kaguya gave no sign that I should stop, so I obligingly continued to talk. "After that, I was lucky enough to fall in with Kozuki Naoto and Kaname Ohgi. At first, Mister Kozuki wanted to find some other place for me to go, afraid that I would be caught up in their private war against Britannia, but I convinced him to reconsider."


"How?" I blinked at Kaguya's sudden interruption. "How did you manage to convince them to let you stay? How did you convince them to take you seriously?"


Ah, I thought, so that's what you're after, is it, Lady Kaguya?


I felt like a fool for going into such depth about my childhood. Clearly, it had all rolled off the young mistress's back, the information irrelevant for her purposes. She wanted respect, and, seeing that I was held in high regard by my friends and associates, wanted to learn my "secret."


Fine. If that's what the lady wants, that's what she'll get.


"It was a difficult process," I admitted, leaning back in my chair and feigning relaxation. "My first step was convincing them to not just kick me back out onto the street, or worse, killing me as a suspected Britannian spy.


"Not," I raised a hand, cutting off the shocked interruption I could tell Kaguya was on the cusp of vocalizing, "that they would have. But I didn't know that; I was not in exactly a trusting frame of mind. Life is cheap in Shinjuku and who would mourn another orphan gone missing, or some wretched hafu found the next morning by the haulers making their rounds? So, I had to convince them not to kill me."


I really have been in need of someone to talk to, I mused. What with Kallen and Ohgi elsewhere and Naoto… currently disinterested in a heart-to-heart, it's been a while since I had the chance to speak to someone who wasn't a subordinate of mine in some way. That said, Lady Kaguya might be a potential ally, perhaps, but she's certainly not a friend. So, not too much frankness.


"They thought I was Britannian at first, and that was the first thing I needed to change. I am Japanese, just as much as anyone else in Shinjuku, and I would be damned if I was mistaken for a Brit. I said as much and swore loyalty to Japan. And in that moment… I knew it was true. It hadn't just been an act of chance that I ended up an orphan in a stranger's apartment. There had been a purpose after all, because I had come to fight for their Cause if they would have me." I smiled, nostalgia momentarily taking away the bitterness of dredging up old memories even as I obscured my motives in a fresh layer of deceit. I was, after all, still making a sales pitch; no need for her to learn what my true thoughts had been back then.


"Of course," I laughed with forced casualness, as if I were some old man spinning a yarn involving some anecdote from the misty past, "I immediately ruined my defiant pitch by breaking down and crying. In retrospect, even if either of them was the kind of man who was willing to kill a child, that definitely put an end to any thoughts along that line. Especially when Naoto hugged me."


Naoto… For a moment, I smelled the old leather of his jacket and felt his warm arms around my shoulders, pulling me into his chest as I wept. Will you ever forgive me, Naoto? But, I did what I thought I had to do. I knew there would be a price, but…


"So, that's how I found my way to both a new home and more importantly, a new reason to live. Before, I had worked as hard as I could to keep myself alive and to lift as much of my mother's burden from her shoulders as I could. Now I had a new family, a family of rebels, fighting for the freedom of our people." I smiled self-deprecatingly as I spread my arms in a hopeless shrug, inspired by half-remembered TV broadcasts of politicians playing to the crowd. "What else could I do? I set myself to learning how I could help advance the Cause."


"But you were just eleven," Kaguya objected, her voice surprisingly soft, lacking any trace of the demanding noble. "How could they possibly have let you join their fight, especially if they were of the moral caliber you ascribe to them? How could you have possibly convinced them to let you join in earnest?"


I shrugged, "As I said, it was a difficult process. I think they decided to keep me on as a charity case, perhaps with some idea of treating me as a mascot or whatnot. That got me a foot in the door, so to speak."


"Or to put it differently," Kaguya said in a thoughtful tone, "you played upon their perception of you as a child in need of protection until they brought you in close to their confidences. But then what? How did you take the next step into becoming their leader?"


"Well," I replied, slightly uncomfortable at how Kaguya had characterized my actions, "to start with, that wasn't the next step. The next step was proving that I could haul my own weight, just like I had back when I was on the work crews. I had picked up enough survival skills while living in Shinjuku to prove I could hold my own, and at the first chance they gave me, I demonstrated those skills."


Not entirely true, but there's no need to bring up any inconvenient past lives or other unnecessary complications.


"And then," I leaned forwards in my chair towards Kaguya, "then I took the initiative. There was a gang that had been giving the Organization some… trouble. I saw an opportunity while out on reconnaissance, and turned a simple scouting into opportunity."


I smiled at the Kyoto House member, giving her just a small glimpse into how I had felt that night. "Some gang members were loading a vehicle with… items. I don't remember what it was now, weapons or drugs, something like that. I slipped into a blind spot and ambushed them while they were driving off. The first sign those poor bastards got that they'd picked up a passenger with their cargo was when I split them open like-"


And for a moment, leaning so far over the table that I was almost touching noses with Kaguya, I was back there in that truck cab. That hapless pair of gangsters had been my first kills in this life, and the smell of their bowels opening in death mixed with the blood soaking my arm to the shoulder had been a ticket back to the trenches west of Kaiserslautern. After years spent in toil, in keeping my head down and avoiding any attention, it had been such a return to form, a return to when I was strong and respected… It had been intoxicating.


Then, I was back in the present, noticing how both of Kaguya's security were on the brink of reaching for their concealed weapons, how Kaguya's eyes were wide and dilated with emotion, although to her credit she hadn't recoiled away from me.


"Well, in any case..." I coughed a bit awkwardly as I slowly sat back down in my chair, the tension in the room dissipating almost all the way back to where it had been moments before.


"Afterwards, we drove that truck to our own safehouse and claimed its cargo for our own. And then the others cleaned the mess out of the cab, as I was pretty much falling asleep on my feet. After that," I said, speaking in a deliberately nonchalant manner, as if I hadn't lost myself in remembered emotion for a moment, "I no longer had any worries about not being taken seriously. The key, Lady Kaguya, was proving my competency in an undeniable manner. Of course," I added, "after that, I had to prove that I was something other than just a lunatic, someone capable of planning, capable of managing details beyond the simplicity of slaughtering our enemies. That took longer, but I had bought adequate breathing space to build that reputation."


"I understand." Kaguya's voice was even and seemingly entirely unruffled, despite my little act out. Reluctantly, my respect for her rose a degree. "You built a reputation as an individual who had useful skills and the necessary will and initiative to deploy them effectively. And from there, you have simply been following that road, I daresay? Proving your competence again and again, and in the process eroding any perception of yourself as a child?"


"As my mother taught me," I replied, "I am doing what I must to fulfill my goals. However, my goal is no longer just my personal survival; as long as the flag of Britannia flies over the Home Islands, that struggle is pointless - die now or die later. My goal is to see the sun rise over a free Japan once again. To that end, I will do as I must. If that means that I must take up arms to free my country despite the fact that I just turned twelve back in March?" I shrugged. "So be it."


"I see," Kaguya said, barely suppressing a sigh as she did so. Despite her attempt to cling to civility, her disappointment was clearly legible, her previous enthusiasm suddenly absent from her face. Clearly, she had hoped for something more, perhaps a step-by-step guide to securing her own influence and power. "Well, thank you for your story, Miss Tanya. I'd… I had heard so much about you, and I thought…"


"You thought that if a girl who was even younger than you could assert herself as a leader in her own right, you could emulate my path to likewise establish yourself as a player in your own organization?" I lifted an inquisitive eyebrow, already knowing myself to be correct before Kaguya nodded. "Lady Kaguya, if I might be so bold, what are you trying to accomplish? Why are you so eager to gain power? Correct me if I'm wrong, but you are from one of the Six Families, aren't you? Surely your family will educate you and prepare you to become their agent as you mature."


Kaguya let out a very unladylike snort, openly incredulous and almost smiling at my apparent display of ignorance for a moment before sobering up.


"Miss Tanya," a ghost of Kaguya's amusement still hung in her voice, but her eyes were suddenly much older, host to a very adult cynicism, "I admire your optimism, although I suspect that it may be rooted in ignorance."


"Perhaps so," I allowed, trying not to take offense at the comment and failing. What could this child know that I didn't after three lives? "Enlighten me, please."


"I'm a woman," Kaguya said as if that explained everything. Considering the expectant pause that followed, perhaps to her it did.


"So am I," I replied reasonably, "and so are almost a third of the Sun Guard at last count." My lips twitched at that, a humorless smile squirming across my face. "It seems like women have a better chance of surviving here in Shinjuku, what with the gangs recruiting more heavily from the young men and the Britannians preferring… well, let's call them less lethal corrective measures with Eleven women who cross them, instead of the simple bullet to the brain most men who cross them get."


"R-right," and it was Kaguya's turn to blink with momentary surprise, momentarily put off her point. "But, you don't understand, truly you don't. The people who I work with, the people who run the oth- the people who run the Six Families, they are traditional. They are the last survivors of the old noble lines from the Empire, our empire," she clarified, "the ones who became the not-so-secret masters of the Republic."


"Ah," I replied eloquently, finally understanding what Kaguya was saying. "So, I assume you're receiving a very full and in-depth education on the intricacies of tea ceremonies, flower arranging, and how to run your husband's affairs, once you acquire one?"


"Yes!" For a moment, Kaguya almost glowed with happiness, clearly overjoyed to finally meet someone who got her point. "Do you know how it feels, just being seen as an object, some investment just waiting to mature before it can be cashed in on? It's like they just see me as a bloodline and a womb on legs! My guardian and all the old men are in on it! I'm just as smart as any of them, and I'm not so stupidly tied up in all the old traditions and worries about profitability and all that rot!"


"Indeed, I do know what it's like to be seen as an object, a vessel transporting tainted blood." The biting words, dry as a desert, sprang unbidden from my lips. "I'm a hafu, Lady Kaguya, with the bad luck to look as Britannian as one of the Emperor's spawn. Do you think that was lost on the fine people of Shinjuku? Or, for that matter, on the JLF's own Major Onoda, whom your agent put me in contact with, knowing full well that he both despises Britannians and holds women in contempt?"


By the time the second sentence had passed my lips, Kaguya's face had already gone ashen. She was clearly smart enough to realize how foolish and self-absorbed she sounded, complaining about being valued only for her heritage to someone whose heritage was so easily despised.


On the other hand, I did know how it felt to be seen as lesser for reasons beyond my control. Further, I remembered from my first life how often traditionalists had harped on about how women should stay in their place, and that had been in a considerably more liberal Japan, one that hadn't been subjected by a foreign power governed by an absolute hereditary monarchy of all things. With that knowledge, it was difficult to hold Kaguya's hasty words against her and easy to let her off the hook. After all, she was still a child.


And a child in truth, not a cuckoo with the memories of two lives crammed into her head. Probably.


"But," I waved my hand in a conciliatory fashion between us, as if I were literally trying to clear the air, "I do understand, Lady Kaguya. You are clearly intelligent and driven; just marrying you off to secure some alliance or agreement would be a foolish waste of your potential by your family."


"So, will you help me?" Kaguya asked, her voice low and intense as she leaned forwards over the table, nearly upsetting her half-full teacup as she interrupted me yet again. "Think about it, Miss Tanya! I know that Old Man Munakata's been playing hardball with you, forcing concessions for every scrap of support he throws your way, even the kind of support we provide the JLF with for free! And I know you've got plans and ambitions - did you think we hadn't heard about your evacuation program? You need support for that, right? I can be that for you! Just help me!"


I leaned back slightly, letting my hands relax on my chest as I met Kaguya's wide-eyed stare.


So, I thought, the old man on the phone's name is Munakata, is it? There's a Munakata on the Numbers Advisory Council, isn't there? A Lord To-something or another. And how did you know about that, Lady Kaguya? And don't think I didn't notice how you just slipped up and referenced "we". I doubt a mere daughter would say that, even the daughter of a family head.


"And how," I said, not breaking eye contact, "do you propose that I help you, Lady Kaguya? What leverage can I possibly call upon to help you? Not that I wouldn't help you if I could," I added, reading the thought on her face, "but what can I do that would assist you? I don't see how I could possibly influence the internal politics of the Six Houses."


"Oh?" Kaguya's eyes flashed with amusement as she settled back in her chair, once more in control of herself now that we were negotiating terms. "But you already have, Miss Tanya! You see," she scooted forwards again, probably to the edge of her seat, clearly excited, "by your actions, you've shaken everything up! Before you showed up, the JLF had settled into a rut, Prince Clovis was comfortable on his throne, and nothing was happening, but now…"


She held up a hand and started ticking off fingers. "You've managed to tilt the balance of power in the JLF strongly towards the more aggressive elements-"


"You mean Lieutenant Colonel Kusakabe," I noted, taking the opportunity to get some of my own back by interrupting Kaguya for a change.


"That's right," she nodded in approval. "The lieutenant colonel managed to net all of the credit for setting Niigata on fire as well as the bulk of the recruits from that province, as well as the credit for securing a supply of Knightmare parts and support materials. He's been pointing out how it took the Britannians ages to get control of Niigata again when they were just facing peasants with small arms! And that's just one of the icebergs you've thrown into the machine!"


"I think you're mixing your metaphors," I remarked, my dry humor covering my private considerations. I remembered Onoda's news that our actions had set Lieutenant Colonel Kusakabe's star rising, but the man had clearly capitalized even further on his newfound reputation for action over the intervening months.


"Details!" Kaguya waved an impetuous hand before an enthusiastic grin broke through her huffy mask of noble disdain. "Anyway, remember how a bunch of Honorary Britannian-owned businesses got smashed up and shut down after that Christmas thing your guys touched off? A whole lot of them belonged to Old Man Munakata! It's kind of a double whammy for him since he's also one of the most traditionalist of the family heads, but he's the one who's supposedly responsible for supporting your organization, which is kinda radical compared to the stodgy old JLF central command! So now the traditionalist bloc in the Six Houses is weakened because Lord Tosei looks like he can't control his own project!"


That explains the seemingly personal animosity from my previous main contact with Kyoto House if that accidental riot we started destroyed some of the assets of his master. Maybe that's why I got saddled with Major Onoda. I smiled at the thought. And then I actually got a working relationship established with the major, so instead of him killing me we both ended up benefiting against the personal inclinations of this Munakata Tosei.


"You've made your point," I replied, cutting in before Kaguya could drop another bombshell in my lap. As fascinating as this was, I needed to get to the meat of what Kaguya was asking for before her increasingly twitchy security detail hauled her out of the Rising Sun building by force. "But none of those actions were tailored towards influencing Kyoto House. That was just an apparently happy byproduct of fulfilling other objectives. Also, I should note that I am already stretching the Rising Sun's resources to the breaking point just to keep my people here in Shinjuku clothed and fed as it is, and that's not even mentioning how Britannia could attack us at any minute.


"So I repeat: what can I do to help you?"


"Work for me instead!" Kaguya's eyes gleamed with frenetic energy. "I promise I'll be a better partner than Old Man Munakata! I'll give you what you ask for without making you grovel and beg! Just do what I want, attack what I want you to attack, and keep stirring the pot! That way, I can claim the credit for your successes at meetings and stuff, Munakata looks even weaker because he can't keep his own house in order, and best of all, instead of waiting around forever for the perfect time to throw Britannia back out, we can finally reclaim our land from the invaders!"


It was only at that last sentence that I realized I had once again fallen for Kaguya's trap, seeing only what I had expected to see and, presumably, what she had wanted me to see. I had seen the power-hungry noble, eager to find her own authority. I had seen the girl who would become a woman, looking for a way to establish some autonomy. I had missed the zealot completely.


She really is just like Naoto, I observed, remembering how he had reacted to my magic, how he had all but declared a holy war when we had bombed the Station. I can work with this. Moreover, if she's sincere in her willingness to actually provide what I want, when I want… I really can't refuse to work with her. With her support, feeding Shinjuku might actually become a reality. A winter without hunger, with adequate heat and medicine for the sick…


Still, I had to put up some token objection, if I didn't want to look like I was being railroaded in front of Lieutenant Koichi and his man. "You paint an appealing picture, Lady Kaguya," I replied politely, "but, correct me if I'm wrong, wouldn't that just make the Rising Sun your private army? I'm not entirely certain if I want to simply hand over our autonomy to you. After all, we fight for a free Japan, not for your advantage in your noble intrigues."


"You're missing the point, Miss Tanya," Kaguya replied, dismissing my objection. "I'm not a soldier or a fighter or whatever. I mean," she gestured at herself, "that's pretty obvious, right? I'm not going to be bossing you around, but if I can reasonably say that you're doing what I want, well, that's just as good for my goals as actually telling you what to do! Besides, unlike some people in the Six Houses, I want what you want! I remember Japan, Miss Tanya! Your goals are mine! Just back me up when I need your support, and I'll give you my support in exchange."


"...An alliance, then," I said aloud. "An alliance between the Rising Sun Benevolent Association and…?"


"An alliance between the Kozuki Organization and the House of Sumeragi," Kaguya replied firmly. "And between all of our associated groups, of course. Sumeragi Industries, Rising Sun, so on and so forth."


"I hesitate to ask, this late into our discussion, but…" Kaguya tilted her head inquisitively, waiting for the question. "But do you actually have the authority to make this agreement stand? Or am I going to need to confirm this with whoever the head of the Sumeragi family is?"


"Well," Kaguya replied, drawing noble arrogance up around her like a cloak, for all that her grin undermined any true haughtiness. "You are of course free to confirm my offer with the head of House Sumeragi. Her name is Sumeragi Kaguya!" She waited for a beat before adding "you can have her number if you like," with a winking smile, the mock arrogance vanishing like mist.


"You're the head of House Sumeragi?" I stared at the other girl, who grinned cheekily back. "You are one of the Six, the oligarchs who control Kyoto House? The ones who some say are the greatest batch of traitors in the history of Japan?"


"Yup!" Kaguya chirped back in reply. "Sumeragi Kaguya, also known as Lady Sophie to our Britannian friends. Pleased to make your acquaintance, I'm sure!"


I looked past Kaguya and locked eyes with Lieutenant Koichi. "Not a word of this leaves this room," I commanded. "Nobody is to know who she is. You both heard her," I met the other soldier's gaze before turning back to Koichi, "she's just some middle-ranking Kyoto House member's daughter, visiting here on a lark."


Lieutenant Koichi nodded, his eyes thoughtful in his mangled face. After a moment, he seemed to remember his military rank and saluted me, his subordinate quickly following suit.


"Lady Kaguya," I turned back to my guest, who was still smiling at me, "you have a deal. Help me and I will do my best to help you in exchange. Help me keep my people alive, and I will do what I can to expand your power and influence in Kyoto House." I extended my hand across the table.


Suddenly remembering how the previous Kyoto House potentate I had negotiated with had ended our conversation, I awkwardly added, "Long live Japan, and long live the Imperial Family. Revere the Emperor, expel the barbarians." It had borne ritual weight when I'd heard it, and I had taken it as a quirk of their organization, or of the social class their leadership stemmed from.


"Thanks!" Kaguya chirped, taking my hand and pumping it once, twice, and three times. "That's probably me! Anyway, pleasure doing business with you! We're gonna achieve great things together, Miss Tanya!"


---------


JULY 4, 2016 ATB
SHINJUKU GHETTO, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
0700


"-eight cars loaded with barley, and finally, no fewer than ten cars loaded with 'special goods' with Kyoto and Tokyo Settlement Assessors stamps already paid for and applied."


The Sun Guard messenger flipped his notebook closed with a flourish, a broad smile on his face as he did so. He was clearly proud of delivering his report in good time, beating any other competing report of the new delivery to my door.


"Thank you, soldier," I replied, too drowsy to remember what the man's name was at the moment. In my defense, I had been asleep five minutes ago. I couldn't be expected to remember names before I'd had at least half a cup of coffee! "Your prompt report is appreciated. That will be all."


"Ma'am!" He fired off a truly sloppy salute and strode out of my office, the door swinging shut behind him, leaving me at my desk with my mug and the hand-delivered envelope that the conductor had passed to a Rising Sun member working as a janitor at the station when his train from Kyoto had arrived.


If someone from the Six Houses wanted to kill me, I doubt they'd use ricin or any such nonsense, I reasoned as I cut the envelope open, dumping the single sheet of paper out.


"Dear Commander," the letter read. "Hi there! I hope you like your surprise gift! Consider it my way of saying thank you for telling me your life story. It was super sad, but also really inspirational. I can see what N. saw in you, and what your people saw in you. Stick with me, and we'll go far. Let's be good friends! S.S."


"Sophie Sumeragi, I assume," I said to the empty room, wincing at how dry my voice sounded.


Maybe some water before I enjoy the first coffee of the day.


I looked down at the brief letter again. I was confident that the special packages that Kaguya had bribed both ends of the track into sealing without further inspection contained weapons, the weapons I would need to make the lives of any Britannians trying to force their way into Shinjuku utter hell. With those weapons and the huge shipment of food, medicine, clothes, cigarettes and other small luxuries, and toiletries I had just received the kind of material support I needed to strengthen my position in Shinjuku against the discontented Notables as well as the invaders.


And so the deal is fulfilled already… I stood up from the desk and walked over to the window of my office on the second floor of the Rising Sun's Headquarters, a few rooms down from the room I had met Kaguya in. The window squealed as I forced it open, but it rose nonetheless, letting the breeze still cool with the night into the room. The lighter flicked to life, and soon the letter was just ash.


I was in Kaguya's debt, and that was an uncomfortable place to be. I had no idea how ruthless she would be as a creditor or how soon she would expect a return on her investment. And yet, no matter how ruthless she might be, Shinjuku will live for another few weeks. If that means putting myself into personal debt, then isn't that what it means to be a leader?


I wonder if Naoto would be proud of me?

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 29: A Snipe Hunt, Part 1


(Thank you to Aminta Defender, Sunny, Restestsest, Mitch H., Adronio, WrandmWaffles, Rakkis157 and MetalDragon for beta-reading and editing this chapter. A bit shorter than normal, but Chapter 30 will hopefully arrive sooner than normal as a result.)


MAY 16, 2016 ATB
OUTPOST #2, CHUO WARD, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
1600


Inspector Nelson Dutra Garcia took a long pull from the paper cup of mediocre office coffee sitting on his temporary desk. The awful brew was lukewarm and a trial upon his tongue, but he needed the caffeine desperately. Anything to keep the jet-lagged exhaustion at bay for a few hours more, until he could sleep, was welcome.


He sighed with boredom as he flipped through the personnel files of the supposed "cream of the regiment." Garcia, better known as Gus to his friends and colleagues back at the Pleasanton Field Office due to some long-forgotten incident at an office Christmas party and alternatingly called "Nelito" or "You Bastard" by a string of ex-lovers across the New Areas, was having a devil of a time keeping his eyes from crossing as he took in the bland details.


Unfortunately, he had already cut all the corners he could with this task. Some things a man just had to handle himself, and choosing a local guide wasn't something Nelson was willing to delegate. Recommendations were all well and good, but he wouldn't be able to rely on the guide in the slightest if he didn't have at least some hand in the selection.


Bureau policy called for agents abroad from their Area of assignment or the Homeland to use local Honoraries as ciphers whenever possible, even when the agent in question had a strong command of the local language. The locals, even those who had put aside old loyalties for their new Empire, would always have a better grasp on the peculiarities of the Area. Even the most ardent Honorary Citizen who had shared every detail he thought would be useful to Britannia benefitted from the half-dozen details he hadn't thought to share. From such nuances success or failure could grow in equal measure.


Even if the Bureau hadn't mandated the use of Honorary Britannians when possible, Nelson still would have sought out local help of his own initiative. As an Honorary Citizen himself, albeit one descended from latifundiários who had seen which way the wind was blowing four generations ago and who had pledged their allegiance accordingly, Nelson fully appreciated the advantages that Honoraries brought to the table. More to the point, he understood what drove them to work harder and take more risks than Britannian commoners; above all else, every Honorary strove to be useful. If you were useful to the right person in just the right way…


Well, Honorary Citizens had become Britannians before, typically via the fiat of some noble potentate or highly placed governmental officer, who imparted the grand reward of Citizenship as thanks for some great or long service. Failing that, it was far from unheard of for an ambitious commoner family to bring a skilled Honorary into the fold via matrimony; while that Honorary might never enjoy the status of full citizenship in the Empire, their children would.


And so, with at least five hours to go before he could surrender to his body's demands for sleep, Inspector Garcia forced himself to concentrate on the files in front of him, always on the quest for diligence in the execution of his duties.


True to form, most of the Honorary soldiers recommended to him by their officers were stolid, seemingly uninspired men. No doubt they were all strong, neat, and obedient, as only a fool would recommend the dross for duty with a Bureau agent for fear of their name appearing in his report, but Nelson had little doubt that the officers would likewise only recommend their safest bets for the same reason. Their reliable men, and the handful of women, were certain to be all but oxen in human form, dull and unimaginative as they were uncomplaining.


Nelson blinked and turned back to the last profile he had looked at. His eyes had filmed over with exhaustion as he had skimmed its contents and, while he couldn't remember what he had read, something had seemed off…


A moment later, his eyes widened, all fatigue dropping away. It was inconceivable, an almost unimaginably stupid blunder, but… He scanned the page again, carefully searching for inconsistencies, for hints of misdirection or omission, but found nothing.


Moving carefully, as if any sudden jerking motion might send the impossible document spiraling away into the ether once again, Inspector Garcia carefully entered the relevant name and rank into the pre-written standard personnel requisition and printed the completed form on Bureau letterhead. A quick phone call to the staff sergeant on duty sent a messenger to the Inspector's temporary office, and after a few words, back away again.


The two military policemen whom Colonel Prescott had assigned to nursemaid him around the outpost fell into step behind him as Nelson strode past, just as he knew they would. He had worked with their brothers in arms many times before, most recently in the round-up of a ring of subversives smuggling banned literature across prefectural borders.


The redcaps had never given Inspector Garcia any cause to doubt their loyalty or willingness to dole out violence on a moment's notice. But, if the military police force had a weakness, it was a crippling lack of imagination, both in terms of investigation and in the interrogation room.


Fortunately, Nelson thought, no hint of smirk showing under his habitually broad and friendly smile, the Bureau is here to provide plenty of both on their behalf. Which makes my arrival here before they realized who they had tucked behind a clerical error so serendipitous; I would hate to have seen the Military Police try to co-opt such a resource without breaking it!


"Stand by the wall at parade rest," Garcia directed as the small entourage arrived at Conference Room C. "I need you to look as bored as possible while still looking professional."


"We can manage that," the MP with sergeant's stripes acknowledged with a wry smile. "Least I can't fall asleep on my feet."


"Sure you can," Nelson continued briskly, "I have faith in your abilities, Sergeant. Now, when the mark gets here, I need scary faces, but I need you to make a show of focusing on me. As soon as I give an order, jump to it. No need to ham it up, but if it looks a bit dramatic, that's fine."


"Building you a pedestal, eh, Inspector?" The redcap private nodded knowingly. "As you say, Sir."


"Get in place, then," Nelson said dismissively. "The boy's file said that he's quite keen, so he'll probably be here soon. Remember, as soon as he gets here, you're terrifying and bored, and when I speak, professional but terrified. And," he smiled knowingly, feeling the scar pulling at his lip, "I'll make sure Colonel Prescott knows how helpful you were."


"Right you are, Sir," the sergeant agreed, before tapping his subordinate on the shoulder and leading him to the wall. For his part, Garcia artlessly arranged himself in the chair at the head of the table, striving to look as stern as possible without being unapproachably formal.


First impressions mattered, after all. Especially when an asset like the son of the last Prime Minister of Japan fell into your lap.


MAY 16, 2016 ATB
OUTPOST #2, CHUO WARD, TOKYO SETTLEMENT
1630


"Sir!" Corporal Kururugi came to attention, clicking his heels as his fist thudded into his breastplate directly over his heart, the very model of military professionalism. He hoped. "Corporal Kururugi, reporting as ordered!"


"At ease, Corporal," came the disinterested reply from the officer seated at the immaculately neat desk in front of him, barren of any paperwork save for the single document said officer was theatrically perusing. "Do you know why I've called you here today?"


There were many possible replies Corporal Kururugi could have offered up to answer that leading question, ranging from attempts to curry favor to self-incriminating confessions for crimes imagined or real. After just over a year of service under the command of Captain Collins, commanding officer of His Majesty's 32nd Honorary Legion, 1st Brigade, 3rd Regiment, 1st Battalion, he had learned better than to volunteer any of those possible answers.


The battalion's commander didn't appreciate "lip" from the Honoraries who served under him.


"No Sir," Corporal Kururugi said, following the script with as much enthusiasm as he could muster as he settled into parade rest. As the silence lingered just a bit too long, he elaborated with a "Couldn't hazard a guess, Sir."


Behind the seated officer, Color Sergeant Coffin, the battalion's senior NCO, gave a minute headshake, discouraging any further additions.


The sergeant's blotchy face was impassive beneath the florid blooms on his cheeks, and Corporal Kururugi fervently hoped that the man was sober. When sober, the middle-aged Britannian was the only soldier in the battalion capable of putting a check on the captain's youthful impetuosity. When drunk though, his help was… dubious at best.


"I called you here today to bid you farewell," Captain Collins said, looking up from the desk for the first time since Corporal Kururugi entered the office. His burgundy mustache, elaborately waxed, arched with aristocratic disdain as he deigned to make eye contact. "Farewell for now, at least. You are being detached for temporary duty as a local guide. Do thank Rockwell before you go, Corporal; he's the one who recommended you."


As he spoke, the captain spun the single sheet of paper towards Corporal Kururugi and, with an elegant flick, sent it skimming across the polished mahogany surface. Instinctively, Kururugi left his position of parade rest to catch the paper as it slid off the desk. Judging by the contemptuous sneer on Collin's face, that had somehow been the wrong move.


Fail if you try and fail if you succeed, Suzaku murmured. And all for an audience of two. How petty…


"Yes Sir," Corporal Kururugi responded smartly, quickly skimming the document. "I will, Sir!"


Printed upon the document under an unfamiliar letterhead were his orders. Apparently, Corporal Kururugi was to render all due assistance to one Police Inspector Nelson Dutra Garcia, of the Pleasanton Office of the Imperial Bureau of Investigation, out of New Wales, Area 7. His orders particularly emphasized his duty to provide the inspector with interpretation, translation, and local knowledge on demand, as well as "handling any and all miscellaneous tasks delegated upon him."


"I would hurry if I were you, Corporal," Captain Collins drawled, amusement that tried for sardonic and settled for jeering on his face. "The Inspector has already arrived. He's waiting for you. Full kit, I'd say; no idea when you'll be back to trouble our halls again."


Ten frantic minutes later, Corporal Kururugi was in the Administrative Office's lobby, greeting the Britannian duty sergeant. "Corporal Kururugi, 1st Battalion 2nd Company, reporting to a summons from Inspector Garcia."


"He's waiting for you in Conference Room C, Corporal, along with a couple of redcaps" the sergeant replied in the distinctive accent of central Area 1, using the nickname of the Army's Military Police Corps. "Bit early, aren't you? Good man. Haven't seen much of that from your lot. That'll keep 'em happy."


"Thank you, Sergeant," Corporal Kururugi nodded, taking pride in the compliment even as he tried to quash his sudden spike of anger at Captain Collins. "Have a good shift."


It's always good to excel in the little things, Kururugi told himself as he made his way down the hall to Room C. Take their spite and turn it into a step upwards. Captain Collins had his fun sending me scrambling, but I just impressed a sergeant working in the major's office thanks to him. And now… Now I have to impress a police inspector.


The door to Room C was open and unguarded, so Corporal Kururugi walked straight in, his pack still slung over his shoulders and his helmet tucked under his arm. He immediately spotted the redcaps, where the pair of military policemen waited by the far wall at parade rest, their faces flat and hard. To his eyes, they had the mien of bored men who were attending to a pointless task out of rote professionalism.


Good Britannian soldiers, he decided approvingly.


The seat at the head of the table was occupied by an apparent civilian in a tailored suit. Corporal Kururugi was immediately suspicious; in his experience, a civilian whom the military and especially the military police showed deference towards was likely either a noble, a representative of one of the myriad of competing intelligence agencies, or perhaps both. The quality of the man's charcoal three-piece ensemble indicated the sort of wealth established money brought, but the white scar lancing across his dusky cheek indicated a bit more of a rough and tumble life than Corporal Kururugi typically attached to the Britannian upper crust.


After all, Suzaku remembered, Lelouch could hardly lift a practice sword when he first arrived, much less knife-fight.


"Sir!" Corporal Kururugi barked, coming to attention as he saluted the suited man. For all that he wasn't in uniform, the man's presence was enough to announce his dominance over the room. "Corporal Kururugi, reporting as ordered, Sir!"


"Take a seat, Corporal," the inspector replied, his voice coolly melodic with an accent Corporal Kururugi had never heard before. "I will deal with you shortly."


Then, as Corporal Kururugi negotiated his heavy pack down to the floor and gingerly sat down in the finely cushioned chairs, desperate to not hurt the leather upholstery, Inspector Garcia turned to the brace of policemen, who remained poised like unlovely statues save for their eyes, which had fixed on the Bureau man.


"Kindly pass my regards and thanks onto Colonel Prescott for me, gentleman," Garcia began, "and reassure him that I will not forget his name when I next report in. I will, of course, be anticipating the friendly cooperation and hospitality of your counterparts in the Navy this evening. Your office will make the necessary arrangements, I am sure."


"Yes, Sir!" came the crisp reply in two-part harmony.


"Wonderful!" Said the inspector with a genial smile that somehow contrived to only make his words all the more menacing as he dismissed the men with a nod. "Carry on then."


Corporal Kururugi could only watch in amazement as the two redcaps, clear Britannians and hardened fighters both, almost fell over themselves to acknowledge the Inspector's orders and to awkwardly mumble the requisite pleasantries as they beat a hasty retreat out and away.


As the door to the conference room closed behind the MPs, the Inspector stood up from his chair and stretched with a theatrical yawn, the brooding aura of potent menace immediately dissipating at the casual motion.


"Finally!" Inspector Garcia exclaimed with a sudden, almost boyish burst of energy as he circled the table, stopping beside Corporal Kururugi's chair. "I thought they would never leave! Corporal Kururugi, eh? I'm Nelson, or Inspector Garcia in public. It's very good to meet you!"


He extended a hand, which Corporal Kururugi shook automatically, a mechanical smile hoisted up on his face as he struggled for the correct reaction. "It's… good to meet you too, Sir. I hope to be of service to you."


"None of that formality," Inspect- Nelson insisted with a dismissive wave. "Nelson, please. I'm no military man, nor am I some Britannian blueblood who takes offense at familiarity, Corporal. In fact, I'm an Honorary Citizen of our glorious Empire, just as you are, so there's no need to stand on ceremony."


Corporal Kururugi blinked.


Sure you are, he thought dismissively, which is why you just gave an order to a pair of Brit redcaps with the full expectation that it would be obeyed.


Still, I suppose it doesn't matter who he is; all that matters is that he's in charge and I've been ordered to assist and obey him.


"As you say, Sir," Corporal Kururugi said agreeably. "I look forward to assisting you with your business here in Area 11."


"...Please, Corporal Kururugi, call me Nelson," Inspector Garcia insisted, before smiling and adding, "I am far too young and handsome to be called sir! The day people start 'sirring' me is the day I know I have been trapped behind a desk at last!"


The man's smile was infectious, and Corporal Kururugi found himself automatically returning it. Whatever doubts he might have about the idea that he and Inspector Garcia were on the same social level were swiftly being eroded in the face of that apparently sincere charm. Some part of him that had been tightly clenched since Christmas had begun to relax without him noticing it.


"As you say, Nelson," Corporal Kururugi replied, deadpan but with a ghost of a younger Suzaku's humor, and felt his nascent smile broaden as Nelson chuckled warmly in response. "So… Sorry for asking, but you really are an Honorary Britannian too…? I mean," he gestured vaguely at the inspector's tailored suit, "begging your pardon, but I don't think I've seen many Honoraries wearing Schulster Row."


"Ah, you have a good eye, Corporal!" Inspector Garcia exclaimed, straightening his lapels. "And to answer your question, yes, I am an Honorary Citizen of the Empire."


He paused, clearly anticipating some sort of reaction, but Corporal Kururugi kept quiet. What would be the point in mentioning how life for Honorary Britannians in Area 11 was scarcely better than it was for their recalcitrant Number cousins?


Clearly, his silence had spoken loudly enough, as a hint of strain entered the older man's smile. "Ah, well… I understand that things are still quite rough here in the New Areas, and in Area 11 in particular, but these things take time, Corporal. Don't worry, soon you and your fellow Honorary Citizens of Eleven heritage will enjoy the same quality of life as we do in the more civilized Areas. Why, Area 9, New Mann, was only proclaimed seventeen years ago, and already the Honorary Citizens there enjoy the same privileges as we from the Old Areas, if not the Heartland."


He's right, Kururugi told himself, it takes time for the system to work. If I can just get my people to put down their weapons and give the Britannians some time, I'm sure they'll see the wisdom of it soon enough. Area 11 is too valuable to ever be independent, but its Sakuradite makes it too important to neglect. If the fools would stop running around and getting people caught up in dreams, surely they'd all understand it!


Area 9 had a population of fifteen million after they were conquered by the Britannians, Suzaku whispered from his cloister, and Japan had over a hundred and twenty million citizens. Area 9 didn't offer any significant resistance after they were taken over too, I remember that from Instructor Tohdoh's lessons. Japan hasn't known peace in a decade. If it took the Empire almost two decades to handle a complacent population an eighth the size of ours, how long will the Elevens have to wait?


That's where we come in, Kururugi reminded himself. If our people want to fight, we should fight for the Empire, so they will understand what valuable contributions we can make.


"I'm certain that you're right, Inspector," Corporal Kururugi said out loud, slamming the mental door on Suzaku. "Anyway, I've been commanded to give you all the help I can offer, so… How can I help you?"


"To business, eh?" Inspector Garcia returned to his chair and took his seat again. "You're a keen one. I like it! Very well, Corporal, if you're going to be my native guide as well as my translator, let's see what you know."


I wonder if this was all some extended trick, to see if I had any personal affinity or connections with the insurgents? Corporal Kururugi turned the thought around in his mind for a moment, before discarding it. No, that's stupid. Why would they bother with such a convoluted plan when the redcaps would have happily beaten a confession out of me? So, if he's not trying to entrap me, I wonder what it is he wants to hear?


"For starters," Inspector Garcia began, fidgeting with his cuffs for a moment and loosening his tie before leaning in over the table, eyes alight. "Tell me… what do you know about Yokohama?"


As Corporal Kururugi began to talk, regurgitating everything he had ever heard about the vast port city and the naval base to its south at Yokosuka, he was gratified to see that Inspector Garcia was listening to him. He was paying attention, and not just the minimal consideration of bored officers or the sullen wariness of beaten soldiers, but close attention. The inspector never looked away from him and never looked bored, but nodded attentively as Corporal Kururugi added detail after half-remembered detail, jotting down notes on a pad every now and again.


The sensation of someone voluntarily heeding his words and listening to him scratched another itch deep inside Corporal Kururugi, inside Suzaku, just as their friendly conversation had. And over the course of the next two hours, he told Inspector Nelson Dutra Garcia everything he could about Yokohama, Area 11, and the fight to once and for all put an end to the intransigent Number resistance in the eastern gem in Britannia's crown.


JUNE 22, 2016 ATB
POLICE STATION, FUNAKOSHICHO WARD, PORT YOKOSUKA IMPERIAL NAVAL BASE
1630


"Thank you very much for your time, Mister Eisaku," Inspector Garcia said as he flipped his notebook closed. "My partner and I will pay this mushroom farm you've brought to our attention a visit very soon."


From his seat at the table next to Inspector Garcia, Corporal Kururugi kept his expression blankly emotionless. There was, he reasoned, no point in giving the criminal seated across from them any cause to believe that his offenses had been forgotten or forgiven.


Just because he's willing to throw his former friends under the bus to save his skin doesn't make him a law-abiding citizen again. Corporal Kururugi felt his jaw clench at the thought and tried not to glare too openly at the informant. Transactional loyalty is no loyalty at all.


"Just think," the police inspector added with a friendly enthusiasm Corporal Kururugi felt was wasted on the pathetic wretch, "if we recover any of the stolen property or catch the perpetrators at their stash spot, you could be a free man again by this time next week!"


"Ah…" The informant sagged slightly. "So… You won't be letting me go, then?"


Corporal Kururugi glowered at the fool until he quickly added "Inspector?"


The corporal hadn't been brought into this interrogation to intimidate the witness; he had taken that particular responsibility on his own initiative. While he was officially in attendance as the official translator, this particular informant spoke Britannian fluently, rendering his presence redundant. All the same, Nelson claimed to value his perspective and insisted that he attend all interrogations, and dutifully Kururugi had complied.


"I am afraid not," Inspector Garcia replied, shooting a quelling look at Corporal Kururugi. "While I have complete confidence in the information you have provided, I will of course need to keep you in custody until I can act on it. Way of the world, I fear."


Somehow, the Eleven managed to sag even further in his straight-backed chair, prompting the inspector to hastily add, "Think of it this way; if your information proves useful, your reward will come that much sooner if I know where to find you."


It was difficult for Corporal Kururugi to hide his scorn at the softhearted display; only his habitual deference to authority allowed him to suppress his instinctive sneer.


He's far too soft on them, the corporal thought, not for the first time. Always the soft touch. Always babying them and rarely pressuring them. And never allowing even a little bit of persuasion… And yet, he was forced to conclude, again, he gets results. And he's in charge.


The middle-aged Number found the temerity to look back up at the inspector. "...My reward?"


"What," Inspector Garcia asked, "did you think I would be so ingracious as to not compensate you for your time and your information beyond restoring your freedom?"


Judging by the Elevenese snitch's expression of wide-eyed shock, he would have counted himself extremely lucky to leave the police station under his own power with all of his fingers unbroken.


"No, my friend," Inspector Garcia continued expansively, "I will see to it that, if we recover the stolen shipment, you will be rewarded appropriately. A finder's fee is the traditional expression of gratitude for the restoration of missing property, after all!"


And to Corporal Kururugi's disgust, the Eleven practically came to life at the mention of a monetary reward. Further details fled from the man's lips, describing hidden rooms and even offering up the address of a Britannian-owned garage that doubled as a chopshop for a local gang.


Once again, he gets results through dishonorable means. Corporal Kururugi grimaced. It was galling to see what could only be described as a corruption of the system in action, and worse still to know that Inspector Garcia's bribery would almost certainly yield fruit. The results speak for themselves, but… Rewarding any criminal for defying the system, for reaching beyond their place… It's wrong.


Over the month and week he had spent trailing after Inspector Garcia, Corporal Kururugi had seen an unfamiliar side of the Britannian justice system, a softer, more decadent side.


Inspector Garcia never asked for him to administer a corrective beating to a mouthy prisoner, nor had he ever so much as threatened any of his interviewees with such measures. That had been a relief to Corporal Kururugi; extrajudicial violence was against the law and indicated a misunderstanding of how justice should work.


Of course, had the inspector ever bothered to submit the necessary paperwork for active interrogations, Corporal Kururugi wouldn't have had a problem assisting him, once approval was given. One of the earliest of the few lessons Kururugi Genbuu had taught a young Corporal Kururugi was just how effective a good beating could be when it came to convincing someone to change their behavior. So, in the spirit of helpfulness, he had even approached Nelson about it on his own initiative, offering him a copy of the form on the off-chance that he was unfamiliar with the Area Administration's particular paperwork.


The inspector had just thanked him for his offered assistance before waving the proffered form away.


Instead, the inspector just… talked to the men and women who he requested be hauled up from the cells. He asked for their stories, for their recommendations of good local restaurants, for what the names of their children and parents were. He put them at ease, brought smiles to their faces, and somehow parlayed those good feelings into actionable intelligence through a process that remained inexplicable to Corporal Kururugi, even though he had seen it over and over.


Somehow, Inspector Garcia could just charm the details of criminal operations and the personalities of the crooks behind them out of the mouths of their imprisoned associates. Even through Corporal Kururugi's translation, which he kept completely faithful to the inspector's word and intent, the man was able to work his magic.


And whenever his charm wasn't able to fully extract all the details, Inspector Garcia would resort to bribery. He never called it as such, always dressing it up as rewards or incentives, but Corporal Kururugi knew what he was seeing.


And yet, Suzaku noted as he stood beside Inspector Garcia at the gate to the farm, leaning against the boundary fence as they watched the police officers lead a line of shackled Numbers from the main building of the mushroom farm, he got results. Again.


"Inspector?" Corporal Kururugi asked after the coffle made its way to the truck that would haul them back to the police station, "if you don't mind my curiosity, why are you bothering yourself with all of this… petty small-time crime?"


"Because I'm part of His Imperial Majesty's police force, Corporal," Inspector Garcia murmured, watching as the prisoners were loaded into the armored truck one by one. "It's my job to track down and detain those responsible for acts against the Empire."


"Yes, of course," Corporal Kururugi agreed with a quick nod, "but that's… Not really what I meant. I mean, you're supposed to be some sort of famous rebel hunter and an expert at dealing with bandits, but you've spent the last month here in Yokohama just going after… small fry stuff. And… it's not like there aren't bigger problems going on around here, work that's more fitting your talents..."


Seeing a trace of disappointment cross the foreign Honorary Britannian's face, he hastily added, "not that it isn't important to deal with petty criminals; all crime must be rigorously prosecuted, of course! It just seems like the local police should be handling this sort of thing, so you can focus on dealing with the insurgents!"


"Oh, but I am," Inspector Garcia replied, smiling now that he had the chance to indulge himself by explaining something. "So, let me ask you, Corporal… What was the stolen property that led me to this farm?"


"One of the trucks that transports fuel out to the stations went missing, right?" Corporal Kururugi frowned, trying to remember the details. "A tanker full of diesel, if I'm remembering correctly."


"Right," Inspector Garcia nodded. "Someone slid behind the wheel and drove the truck off the yard, tank and all. And they drove it to this farm."


"...I'm not seeing the connection to terrorism, Nelson," Corporal Kururugi admitted, irritated by his failure. "They stole some fuel; fuel's expensive, though. They were probably going to siphon the tank off into multiple containers and sell it to their friends." Corporal Kururugi frowned. "What even uses diesel, though? Just trucks, right?"


"Farm equipment too. But yes, the resale idea is entirely possible," Inspector Garcia acknowledged with a nod. "And it's entirely possible that the tanker truck would simply be processed through that chopshop and resold once all identifying markers were removed. Perhaps the crooks running the ring would have even found the balls to sell our truck back to us!"


The inspector laughed at the theoretical audacity of the thieves and Corporal Kururugi dutifully chuckled along in response.


"However," continued Inspector Garcia after the moment of ritual amusement passed, "the other possibility is that the thieves would have sold the truck and its fuel to an insurgent group. It's even possible that some of those even now being loaded onto the wagon as we speak are actually more rebel than criminal, although that distinction is often meaningless. In which case, that truckload of diesel could be a formidable weapon, especially when combined with another ingredient this mushroom farm has in abundance?"


He trailed off, his tone turning the statement into a leading question, clearly testing Corporal Kururugi's knowledge. To his immense frustration, Kururugi still couldn't quite figure out where the inspector was headed. "I'm sorry, Sir. I don't understand."


"Nelson, man, Nelson!" Inspector Garcia reminded him, before sighing. "Not one for chemistry are you, Corporal?"


"I wouldn't know," Corporal Kururugi said apologetically. "I never quite got that far before… Well, before things changed and my instructor went away."


"Ah." Inspector Garcia nodded and sighed again. This time, the exhalation sounded like it came from an older man, a man who had years stacked on his shoulders. "I'm sorry, I forgot. You are just so competent, Corporal, that it's difficult to remember that you are only fifteen."


I should still be in school, not in the military, Suzaku agreed. If only things were different… If only Lelouch had been able to somehow negotiate peace, or if Lelouch had been appointed the Viceregal-Governor…


"Actually, Sir," he corrected, "I'm sixteen now. My birthday was a few weeks ago, on the tenth."


"Ah, yes," the Inspector's expression grew tight across his face. "My apologies, Corporal."


"...Don't worry about it, Sir," Corporal Kururugi replied, at a loss for how else to reply. "But, can you tell me what you were getting at with the diesel, though?"


"Certainly, Corporal." Inspector Garcia favored him with another smile, commending him for his focus or perhaps simply happy with the change in topic. "Simply put, the farm has an abundance of fertilizer, and in particular a stockpile of ammonium nitrate. It's already a very dangerous substance, prone to detonation when mishandled or stored incorrectly. Combined with diesel, however, the fertilizer is highly explosive."


"So that's why we're here," Corporal Kururugi breathed, in awe all over again with the inspector's results. "You realized that they were making a bomb here!"


"I considered it a possibility," Inspector Garcia gently corrected. "Or perhaps they were selling materials that could be used to make improvised explosives for their guerrilla friends. Fertilizer bombs are hardly a revolutionary technology, and I'm sure that many in the local insurgent groups know how to put something worrying together. If the criminals resold the truck, perhaps the insurgents would have even driven our own truck back onto the yard before flicking the switch."


"I understand," Corporal Kururugi nodded along, finally getting the connections. "The rebels do business with the criminals; it's how they get money, materials, and access. Sometimes, they're even the same people. By cleaning up the local criminal groups who steal from His Majesty or from regular Britannians, you're cutting off the local rebels from those citizens!"


"That's right," Nelson grinned at him, clearly pleased. "Trying to hunt down each individual insurgent is a fool's game; you'll always miss some. But, if you cut down on their ability to arm themselves and attack anything important, you can render the actual fighters practically impotent."


"And once you manage that, you can just start detaining everybody connected to those you picked up in the sweeps," Corporal Kururugi continued. "You can rip out the criminal networks and in the process tear the rebels out of the community!"


"Precisely!"


This is so much better than the filtration camps! Corporal Kururugi felt almost drunk on the knowledge. This was a better way! A way to deal with the malcontents that poisoned all of the good people around them without having to kill all of the civilians. Of course, Inspector Garcia is still being needlessly nice to the criminals – I'm sure they'd talk just as readily after some rigorous interrogation. It's not like anyone would care, after all. Nobody cares about criminals and rebels. My people will thank me for ridding them of such parasites!


"So," Corporal Kururugi pressed, fascinated by his new discovery, "is this what you were doing against the ungrateful rebels back in your own area? Back in New Wales? Deprive them of the support of the criminal element and then rolling up their social networks?"


"At times," Inspector Garcia replied with a vague hand gesture. "That's almost in the rearview mirror these days, back at home. The work of the previous generation, of my predecessors. Most of the remaining guerrillas have been driven back into the jungle, up into the highlands and the mountains. They're still out there, squatting in the mud and the muck and the mosquitos, but far away from the Settlements, where the people who matter live."


"It must be nice," Suzaku said, "to have all of the violence so far away from everybody's homes… To have all of the rebels separated out from the innocents…"


"It does make the cleanup easier, whenever we do find one of their Maroon communities," agreed Inspector Garcia. "Sadly though, we have yet to fully push all of the violence out into the countryside. There are still plenty of criminal gangs operating in the favelas, and plenty of angry young people who go on individual rampages. They are pathetic, lashing out without any hope of truly achieving anything, but they are a persistent nuisance. I am sorry to say that we have yet to become a worthy Area, like those of the Homeland."


Corporal Kururugi felt a great rush of respect for the inspector. The man was a tireless warrior, striving towards a worthy goal; despite his own people's stubbornness, he and those before him had managed to find a place within the Britannian hierarchy and had found purposes worthy of respect, even from their overlords.


He wondered if he was seeing his future incarnate before him.


"Someday, Nelson," Corporal Kururugi said, entirely certain in his assurance, "I am sure you will make your people Britannian in every way that matters."


"Hopefully," Nelson responded, "and hopefully, you will convince your people of the wisdom of extending their submission to Britannia into their hearts and minds. If any Honorary of this Area can accomplish it, I suspect it might be you, Kururugi."


At the inspector's knowing look, Corporal Kururugi felt his heart sink all the way down to his boots. "So… You know, I take it? Sir?"


"Nelson," Inspector Garcia gently reminded him, "just Nelson. And of course I know. You didn't bother to change your personal name, much less your surname. It doesn't take a genius to figure out who you are."


"Then…" Suzaku gulped, "do they know? I mean… About…"


If they know that I'm the son of the last Prime Minister of Japan, why are they letting me walk around free? Unless… do they also know that I am the reason why the Japanese surrendered so soon…?


"As far as I know, they do not," Inspector Garcia asserted firmly. "The Britannians are many things, Corporal, but subtle is not one of them. I am fairly confident that, had they known that Kururugi Genbuu's only son had enlisted in an Honorary Legion, they would be trumpeting the news from every rooftop."


Suzaku couldn't help but agree. The Britannians were anything but subtle; one only needed to look upon the ever-climbing towers of the Settlement to realize that their culture was one of great dramatic gestures and flashy exhortations to conquer new domains.


"But… How can they not know?" He hated how plaintive the question sounded, but he had lived under the shadow of this particular sword for almost a year and a half, since his enlistment. Every day, he had dreaded discovery just as he had secretly longed for it. "I mean…" he continued, "I've never hidden my background, not really… I just never really brought it up. How can they not know who I am? I put my name down on the form when I took up the Oath."


"It's quite simple, Corporal," Inspector Garcia sighed. "They misspelled your name. Someone misspelled your name in the official files when they were entering the data from your enlistment papers, and nobody has noticed the error as of yet."


"That's…" Corporal Kururugi didn't know quite how to respond to such a mundane explanation.


That was it? That was all? He raged in the confines of his head. Weeks and months of wondering when the axe would fall, when the DIS would haul me away, and I never had to worry because of a random clerical error?!


A shudder passed through him as Suzaku suddenly realized that the day of his discovery had, in fact, finally come. After all, no matter how pleasant Inspector Garcia was, no matter how willing to answer questions and explain himself Nelson could be, he was still a police officer.


"...Are you going to tell them?" Suzaku didn't know what answer he was hoping to hear. "About who my father was?"


"...I think you're a good soldier, Corporal Kururugi," Nelson said after a moment of silent contemplation, "and I think that you will do great things for the Empire. I don't think that depriving the Empire of a good soldier out of a fit of unjustified paranoia serves His Majesty's interests. And besides," he smiled, "who am I to second guess the fine employees of the local Administration?"


I should protest against this, Corporal Kururugi knew. Purposefully hiding a fugitive from the Security Services is a crime, and even though I don't know if I was ever listed as a fugitive, if DIS or any of the other spooks knew I was still alive, surely they would want me. I should turn myself in, now that I know they aren't aware of me.


But what about the plan? Suzaku asked. If I get taken away or killed by the police, I won't be able to help my people build enough strength and respect to find security within the system. We will never be anything more than disposable, second-class citizens. My father was the one who doomed Japan, so don't I have a responsibility to give my people the best lives possible?


And besides, his inner voice added, my orders told me to do whatever Inspector Garcia decided. He's decided to conceal my identity, so who am I to go against him?


"Thank you, Inspector Garcia," Corporal Kururugi finally got out. "I'll keep your words in mind."


"I'm sure you will, Corporal," Inspector Garcia said with a nod, turning back to the farm, where a second team of police officers was inventorying the contents of the storage sheds and outbuildings. "In fact-"


Before the inspector could finish his thought, he was cut off by the shrill wailing of his phone, a sound that Corporal Kururugi had come to detest over the last five weeks. When he had asked Inspector Garcia why he had chosen such an offensive ringtone, the Seven Honorary had explained that he'd wanted a ringtone that was utterly impossible to ignore. The annoyance, it appeared, was both shared and entirely intentional.


"Ah, duty calls," Nelson quipped as he slid the phone open and put the mobile to his ear. "Inspector Garcia here."


The other half of the conversation was almost inaudible to Corporal Kururugi, but the news conveyed by the urgent murmurs was clearly dire. All sense of levity fled from Inspector Garcia, and it was very clearly Inspector Garcia once again, no longer Nelson.


"At 605 Cartwright?" Inspector Garcia confirmed, turning on his heel and beckoning to Corporal Kururugi as he started to briskly walk back to the car they had borrowed from the Navy's motor pool. "Fine. Tell whoever gets there first to set up a perimeter and to keep everybody there. Honoraries, Numbers, Britannians, whoever – we need witness statements, and I don't care what else they had planned for the evening."


Further inaudible murmurs issued from the phone as Corporal Kururugi clambered into the driver's seat, Inspector Garcia circling around to the passenger side door.


"If he can find a tarp or some sheeting, he can cover the body, if he thinks it will help keep the civilians calm," Inspector Garcia allowed, clearly in response to some query. "Otherwise, no. Nobody should touch the body. Don't let the medics haul it away; she's already dead, there's no point."


Corporal Kururugi turned the key and the car's electric motor hummed to life.


"Fine," Inspector Garcia said, "I'll be there in…" He covered the phone's speaker. "How long will it take to get to the intersection of Cartwright and Margaret? It's just south of the main gate."


"Twenty minutes," Corporal Kururugi replied immediately, easing the car onto the road, "assuming traffic's not too bad."


"Throw on the sirens," Inspector Garcia directed, before uncovering the phone. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Don't let anybody leave, don't let anybody touch the body or anything around it. And tell whoever takes charge of the scene to get everybody inside, preferably behind a thick wall. Garcia out."


The phone slid shut with a clack, and Inspector Garcia sagged back into his chair. From the corner of his eye, Corporal Kururugi saw him run a hand along the scar puckering his cheek, a gesture he had learned the older man used as a soothing motion when he was stressed.


After a quiet moment, the police inspector collected himself and sat upright in the passenger seat. "Well," he sighed, "it seems like our mysterious sniper is back at it again."


"Damn them," Corporal Kururugi muttered, his good mood rapidly descending into black anger. "I guess it was too much to hope that they'd been swept up with the gangs or whatever."


"Too much to hope for indeed," Inspector Garcia agreed with bleak humor. "Personally, I doubt that our friend the Sniper has any association with the gangs. Everything about the attacks screams 'lone gunman', except for his ability to flee the scene without anybody even noticing their departure."


The killings had begun a week before the inspector had arrived in Yokohama with Corporal Kururugi in tow. Despite a total lack of any suspects or leads, it was a practical certainty that the same person or group was behind all of the murders to date; each had been carried out with a high-powered rifle with sufficient strength to punch cleanly through the victim and often the wall behind them, and each victim had seemingly been shot at great range, judging by the complete lack of any sightings of the shooter.


"They're coming closer and closer together," Corporal Kururugi remarked as the car skidded around a corner, siren blaring, channeling his frustration through the pedal under his boot. "At first it was once a week, but the last one was only three days ago."


"The cool-down time is shortening," nodded Inspector Garcia. "Although it's probably too early to guess why. Perhaps they want more blood, perhaps they have a quota they need to hit before a certain time. Maybe they're just frustrated with the lack of any significant reaction on our part."


"They're not the only ones," Corporal Kururugi groused. While he was well aware that Inspector Garcia had been alluding to the media blackout regarding the sniper attacks, or what the police had taken to calling the Yokohama Sniper Attacks, he was more frustrated by the lack of any retaliation.


But who would we be retaliating against?


The thought was just as galling now as it had ever been, but the point remained. There was no sign that the local Numbers were concealing the elusive marksman in their ghettos, nor had any of the informers among the ranks of the Honorary Britannians overheard any gossip about any disgruntled janitors getting their hands on a rifle or whatever.


And if the DIS or the IBI have any Britannians under suspicion, they're not telling us anything about it.


"Have patience, Corporal," Inspector Garcia said encouragingly. "Sooner or later, they will slip up. Someone will see something or they will get sloppy, and then it will only be a matter of time before justice is served."


"You're right, Inspector," Corporal Kururugi acknowledged, "but how many innocent people will they kill before that happens?"


And, Suzaku added, how many of our people will pay the price when the retaliatory executions are mandated? Doesn't this terrorist understand what will happen? Don't they know what blood price the Britannians will demand? If only they would just… Just wait for me to get the system to work for the betterment of us all, instead of this… this stupidity!


Inspector Garcia had no response, and they drove the rest of the way to the scene of the Yokohama Sniper's latest attack in silence.


JUNE 23, 2016 ATB
POLICE STATION, FUNAKOSHICHO WARD, PORT YOKOSUKA IMPERIAL NAVAL BASE
1020


On the other side of the large one-way window, Corporal Kururugi was putting on a very credible performance of a reasonable officer willing to make a deal. It was abundantly clear, at least to Nelson Garcia, that it was not a role that came naturally to the young man. While Corporal Kururugi had been blessed with a deceptively open face and a veneer of friendliness, he had a troubling tendency to resort to forceful coercion at the drop of a hat whenever his inflexible inner world was challenged in the slightest.


But if I can convince him that simply beating down all of your challengers isn't the end-all to maintaining order, he has such potential…


And Area 11 desperately needs men who are more than just hammers.


Nelson sighed and returned to his own paperwork, periodically looking up to check in on the young corporal's progress. His own duties had kept him constantly busy since he had arrived in Area 11 five weeks ago and he couldn't spare the time to truly give the younger Honorary the quality instruction he needed, so Nelson had been forced to squeeze lessons into any available scrap of time, like now.


And with this 'Yokohama Sniper' business kicking off, I doubt my availability will improve in the foreseeable future.


It was a deeply frustrating situation; by prioritizing Corporal Kururugi's training as a beginner counter-insurgency specialist, Nelson would by necessity be sacrificing his own time-sensitive workload, but conversely emphasizing the backlog of old business would undercut Corporal Kururugi's development, leaving him just as focused on short-term gains as seemingly everybody else in this cursed Area. For a man who prided himself on competency and delivering quality work that could stand the test of time, both choices seemed like bad options.


Which, he concluded with a sip of bitter coffee, the Yokosuka station's brew no better than that offered by the Chuo outpost, is just Area 11 in a nutshell, isn't it?


In all of his time in His Majesty's service, Nelson Dutra Garcia had never had the misfortune to set foot in such a poorly administered Area as Area 11. Worse, the only time he had ever encountered such poor governance before had been at the sub-prefectural level, typically when the local intendant succumbed to flattery or gifts from the counts, earls, or estate-holding barons of his intendancy. In those cases, when the usual corruption had grown into an active detriment to the function of the state, it was an easy matter of replacing the intendant.


But who had the authority to remove a viceregal-governor? The hint was in the name: Such men ruled with viceregal power and reigned directly in His Majesty's name. Consequently, only the Emperor or his Chancellor could remove viceroys from their offices.


And considering that Area 11's viceregal-governor is fifth in line to the throne and liable to throw his support behind the Chancellor, the only way His Highness will be removed is in the course of a major power struggle inside the Imperial Household, something the current Emperor took considerable pains to ensure would not happen given his own rise to the Throne.


Which meant Area 11 was stuck with the leadership of Clovis la Britannia, the utmost source of almost all of its current woes.


Profoundly frustrating didn't even begin to cover Nelson's thoughts on the matter.


Every Area had its problems. For example, the hinterlands of Areas 5 and 6 were ravaged by Catholic and Gracchite insurgencies and by the endlessly inventive narco gangs who somehow managed to smuggle their wares into the EU, the Heartland, and even the Homeland itself.


Area 7 likewise had remnant Papist rebels squatting among the maroon communities of the jungles, not to mention its own criminal gangs among the destitute urban Number populations.


Area 8 was a smuggler's paradise, and keeping order on its far-flung islands was a Sisyphean task.


Areas 9, 10, and 12 had rebel movements as well, discontented Numbers backed by foreign sponsors; New Zealander and Papuan rebels backed by the nominally neutral Kingdom of Australia in Area 9, a swarm of Indochinese groups taking money from the Chinese whenever they weren't launching raids into Federation territory, and the same damned Catholics in Area 12 backed by the papal wealth from the far away EU.


None of these Areas had problems on the same scale as Area 11, however, and none were so crippled by deep-seated problems in the Administration itself. Indeed, in Nelson's opinion, the Administration was its own worst enemy.


It was a baffling situation: By dint of its massive Sakuradite lodes, Area 11 was the most important overseas possession in the Britannian Empire, the gem in the crown of the New Areas. Its proximity to both of the other Great Powers should have only accentuated the importance of good administration in the face of the circling Chinese and Europeans.


Perhaps it was that natural prosperity and proximity to the corrupting factor of foreigners, far from the eyes of Pendragon, that had attracted the worst of Britannia to the Area? Idealogues, lickspittles, and the brazenly corrupt… All flourishing at the expense of every part of the Area not directly involved in the Sakuradite industry.


In most Areas, his own homeland included, the Honorary Citizen system was used to give the cream of the Numbers, local elites and promising prospects, a stake in the Empire. In Area 11, it was a cruel parody, where the newly fledged Honorary Britannians were treated worse than the Numbers of most other Areas.


In regards to the Numbers themselves, the Empire had historically worked to steadily integrate Number populations into itself over time. When the Crown had first flown from the Isles to the Homeland, a general proclamation of emancipation in exchange for service had simultaneously replenished the depleted ranks of the Royal Army and had broken the back of the rival power bloc of the planter aristocracy. Then, the Empire had set to the task of rooting out any foes within its borders with ruthless expediency, killing entire tribes of natives to the last adult man and distributing the women and children to guardians willing to enlighten and elevate those fortunates to a Britannian level of understanding.


Those early years had imparted key lessons on dealing with subjugated populations to the Imperial Family. Bread had to be offered as well as the stick, and stinting on either only diminished the total returns. Rebellion had to be punished harshly, as it was when the Quebecois and Acadians had risen, but cooperation had to be rewarded as well, as the Cherokee had been rewarded en masse with Honorary Citizenship.


Which made the treatment of the Elevens all the more baffling to Inspector Garcia. Herding the rump urban populations into the shattered districts and walling them off with only the most basic of services available for use as unskilled labor pools, forcing rural populations onto estate villages or into company towns, deliberately leaving the Numbers uneducated and unable to participate in the economy beyond the most base level, and practicing collective punishment on a scale not seen since the end of the last Plains War against the Comanche Lords…


It's almost as if the Viceregal-Governor and his advisors want the Elevens to rebel. Honestly, if I were deliberately trying to set the conditions to make Number rebellion all but inevitable, I'd be hard-pressed to come up with something better than the official policy of Area 11…


Which, in a roundabout way, led Inspector Garcia to the matter of the so-called "Yokohama Sniper."


So far, the Sniper had claimed seven victims, taking their first Britannian only the day before, while he and Corporal Kururugi had been out overseeing the bust at the mushroom farm. Nelson had little doubt that the death toll would be significantly higher by the time the Sniper was brought down; past experience coupled with the complete lack of any leads so far told him as much.


It was a bit early in the investigation to come to conclusions, but the inspector had already begun to put together a profile based on the little evidence he had available.


Until yesterday, all of the victims had been Honorary Britannians, but their ages and gender had varied greatly. None of the victims had been killed by accident; each had been shot through the neck or the head. Several had been shot outside of charging stations, while two had been shot coming out of restaurants or stores. Of the victims, only one was a soldier or policeman, as one of the Honorary victims had been an off-duty policeman. The sole Britannian victim had been a sailor's wife.


All of the attacks had occurred in either the districts of the Yokohama Settlement zoned for Honorary Citizens, or in close proximity to Yokosuka Naval Base. The attacks took place at all hours of the day, with little preference for morning, afternoon, or evening, but so far none had taken place at night.


The same rifle had been used in each attack, as far as the forensics team could determine, based on their analysis of the rounds recovered from the scene of the last three attacks. The Sniper was apparently using either R-11M, the standard Army designated squad marksman rifle, or a similar civilian model with the same round.


Which is interesting, because an R-11M isn't exactly a small weapon, nor one built to be concealed. Anybody carrying one would be very obviously armed.


"Taken together," the conclusion to the report Nelson was finishing began, "it is almost certain that the Yokohama Sniper is an Eleven or a small group of Elevens engaged in an individual rampage against opportunistic targets. While a Britannian malcontent could execute a similar series of attacks on Honorary Citizens, motivated by similar factors as the Christmas Incident, the presence of a Britannian in Honorary districts populated predominantly by ethnic Elevens would have been noticed. The death of Mrs. Nora Evans further reduces the chances of a Britannian culprit."


And this is the reason why the Numbers aren't simply hammered into submission in a well run Area, Nelson thought, looking up from the keyboard to check on Corporal Kururugi again. The subject of the interrogation was scribbling away and chatting with the corporal, apparently on friendly terms. While the subject was clearly wary, he was still freely cooperating. We want them to fear us, not hate us. When they hate us, when they feel they have nothing to lose…


He glanced back over at the pile of incident reports. Six dead Honorary Citizens so far and one dead Britannian. A paltry butcher's bill so far, compared to the only recently suppressed rural rebellion in Niigata Prefecture but made far more ominous by its proximity to the second largest Settlement in Area 11.


When Numbers feel like they have nothing to lose, it's only a matter of time before rebellion breaks out. Even if we do catch this sniper, ten more will be ready to rise in his place. This isn't an isolated incident; it's a sign of the times.


It was painfully clear to Inspector Nelson Garcia, Imperial Bureau of Investigation, that only through a change of leadership in the Area paired with a thorough-going reform of its Administration could a Number rebellion, likely aided and abetted by dissident Honorary Citizens, be averted.


It was equally clear that no such change would be made. So long as the Purist Faction held sway over Prince Clovis, no reform would come. So long as Prince Clovis backed Prince Schneizel as the next true emperor, once Prince Odysseus stepped back as everybody expected, the Third Prince would retain his viceroyalty.


In that light, his duty was clear. The line had to be held until Prince Schniezel took the throne, until the Empire got the new and vigorous Emperor it deserved. As a genius and a statesman, surely the current Second Prince would understand the necessity for reform, and once Prince Clovis's support was no longer needed, he would clean house in Area 11. Until then, it was the duty of every loyal citizen and subject of the Empire, Britannian and Honorary alike, to keep the machine of state functional.


Hence his own service.


Hence his training of Corporal Kururugi.


Hence his eagerness to bring this case and all others like it to a rapid close.


The Empire had to hold until the next generation could take the mantle of leadership. Repeating the destruction of the Emblem of Blood could not be allowed, nor could dissension in the face of the Empire's many enemies, within and without.


Because if the Empire fractures, came the grim thought, it won't be the Britannians who see the worst of it. It will be the Honorary Citizens who will be caught up in the jaws of internecine war and ground to dust. Men like me, like Corporal Kururugi… If only the Britannians understood their Empire as well as we do. Perhaps then they wouldn't treat it with such contempt.


JUNE 28, 2016 ATB
ROYAL ELECTRIC REFUEL STATION, KONAN WARD, YOKOHAMA SETTLEMENT
1314


I never should have left Shinjuku.


A bead of sweat rolled down Kanae's cheek as the familiar, panicky refrain passed through her mind for what must have been the fortieth time so far that day. She liked to think that she hadn't made many mistakes in her twenty years of life, but she had surely made up for that surplus of temperance and good sense when she had volunteered to accompany Tanaka Chihiro on her mission to Yokohama.


It hadn't been a carefully considered choice. Obviously it hadn't been a considered choice in the slightest, otherwise she would have stayed back where it was relatively safe in Shinjuku.


And wasn't that a crazy thing to think?


But Kanae had never been able to resist Chihiro's persuasion, not since she'd attended middle school with the other woman back before the Conquest. For all that Chihiro had changed over the years, going from the smiley, happy-go-lucky schoolgirl Kanae could barely remember to… Well, to Chihiro as she was now, she had always been incredibly convincing.


And when Chihiro had stormed back into the hotel, spitting nails after being "sent away" to Yokohama, Kanae had been one of the handful to step up when her leader had asked for volunteers. The fiery passion in Chihiro's eyes had been enough for Kanae to overlook the stench of moonshine on her breath; her call to spread the war against the raping Britannians beyond Shinjuku's walls enough to let her awareness of Tanaka's unpredictable rage slip from her mind at the worst possible moment.


After two months spent in Chihiro's constant company, the shine had well and truly worn off. The drinking, once reserved for nighttime or company, had overtaken her leader, and now Chihiro was almost constantly drunk. The rage, loosely collared at the best of times, was a constant lurking menace.


Away from Shinjuku and the Commander's watchful eyes, Chihiro had gone feral.


And she had dragged Kanae and Sui, the third member of their little trio, down with her.


I never should have left Shinjuku.


Outside, the intersection's traffic signal flashed green, and Kanae mechanically sent the stolen van, full to the brim with hidden modifications and armed militants, trundling forwards. From behind her, the sound of one of those modifications sliding open sent her heart lurching in her chest, but Kanae didn't dare let her spiking adrenaline floor the accelerator or, even better yet, send her scrambling from the van entirely, oncoming traffic be damned.


Any outside observer could be a plainclothes policeman, ready to arrest any apparent Honorary stepping out of line and subject their unfortunate prey to the full rigors of Britannian "justice". Worse yet, any sign of disloyalty to the supine woman stretched across the floor of the van would lead to a brief yet painful existence as an object lesson about the wages of treachery.


Having borne witness to several of Chihiro's previous examples, Kanae almost preferred her chances in the hands of Britannia's dogs.


Ahead of the van, almost at the next intersection, the familiar neon crown of a Royal Electric refuel station glowed. Even though it was far from peak hours, there were still a few cars parked at the charger stations, their ports open and their drivers idling nearby or darting inside to grab a quick snack as their batteries topped off.


Behind Kanae, the distinctive sound of a coilgun's motor whirring to life cut through the sweat- and whiskey-laden air of the van's interior.


Another bead of sweat rolled down Kanae's cheek.


There aren't any police cars at the station, a part of her wailed, the words trapped behind her lips, and we're nowhere close to any Brit outpost!


But they were passing through the streets of the Settlement, down a road that skirted between a Britannian commoner district and one of the more upscale Honorary districts. According to Chihiro's drunken rantings, that made everybody here an enemy, uniformed or not, combatant or not. Either they were a Britannian and damned by virtue of blood, or an Honorary and damned by the oaths they had sworn.


Or they're Japanese and doing their best to work whatever sucky job they can find to make ends meet, just like most of the people back in Shinjuku. Just like me, and just like Chihiro, once upon a time.


Chihiro hadn't mentioned their people during those rants, and Kanae hadn't seen any reason to draw the woman's quicksilver temper her way by bringing herself to her leader's attention.


There hadn't seemed like there was any point to it.


Kanae felt differently now.


Just as the stolen white van came abreast of the refueling station, the car just ahead and to her left began flashing its turn signals. Kanae obligingly slowed down, waving to the other driver to scoot in ahead of her. With her dyed red hair and fake glasses, Kanae must have looked like a Britannian, as the other driver gave her a grateful wave before accelerating forwards, right through the light of the next intersection as it changed from yellow to red.


Kanae slowed to a halt, her heart in her mouth. Any moment now…


As soon as that light turns green, she knew, as soon as we start moving forwards, past that charging station… Another life will end.


She wondered who it would be, whether it would be a Britannian family or a Japanese one that would have an empty spot at their table starting from tonight's dinner and stretching on forever.


I should say something, do something…


The mere thought made her flinch as Kanae imagined Chihiro's furious glare, remembered the wet sound of bones popping out of joints.


Do something! Kanae castigated herself. Say something!


But the words wouldn't come. Her throat had closed up as her hands, wet with sweat, clenched down on the steering wheel. Time seemed to flatten out as Kanae fought for breath. This wasn't what she had signed up to fight for. This wasn't where she wanted to be, who she wanted to be, the getaway driver for a murderer who had dropped the pretense of fighting for anything beyond revenge when her little sister, her last surviving family member, had rejected her by choosing a life of pacifism.


But it was too late to back out. Too late to turn back.


You coward… Kanae cringed, whimpering as she tried to escape her own thoughts, knowing without any doubt that it was true, that she was a coward. Stuck between a devil pocked with burn scars and a sea of terror and pain, she was scared, too scared to do anything to help anybody.


I never should have left Shinjuku…


The light turned green.

 

[Scopas]

Chapter 30: A Snipe Hunt, Part 2


(Thank you to Aminta Defender, Sunny, Restestsest, Mitch H., Adronio, WrandmWaffles, Rakkis157, Aemon and MetalDragon for beta-reading and editing this chapter.)


JUNE 30, 2016 ATB
ROYAL ELECTRIC REFUEL STATION, KONAN WARD, YOKOHAMA SETTLEMENT
1326


As he pulled the car up to the cordoned-off recharging station, Corporal Kururugi cut the siren off in mid-wail. For a moment, all he could do was sit in the driver's seat, eyes pressed shut and exhausted. The oppressive summer heat had seemingly conspired with the week's stress, and the young soldier's limbs felt leaden and unresponsive.


He didn't want to step out of the car and onto the scene of yet another seemingly unsolvable crime. It was demoralizing.


Not as demoralizing as filtration work, though, he reminded himself. Besides, I need to keep up with Inspector Garcia!


That exhortation fell flat, however, as Inspector Garcia had yet to make any move to get out of the car either. Dark rings had appeared under his brown eyes, and the normally immaculate counterinsurgency specialist had two days' worth of five o'clock shadow crusting his face.


This was the twenty-seventh Yokohama Sniper attack they had been called to in a week since that first urgent call that had sent them racing away from the farm. Twenty-seven attacks and twenty-nine bodies in only eight days.


It was enough to tire anybody out.


Of the twenty-nine victims to date, only twelve had been Britannians from the Homeland or the Settlements in other Areas. Of those twelve, only four had been soldiers, all of whom had been off-duty when they were shot.


One had been a child, shot while making his way from his mother's parked car to the front door of his elementary school.


And seventeen of my people, Corporal Kururugi thought with a smoldering resentment. Seventeen men and women who were just trying to live their lives, trying to prove to the Empire that we are just as loyal as the Honorary Britannians in any other Area.


With every new body, the pressure from on high to find the culprit had ratcheted up. Worse still, after a month of suppressing the story and thirty-eight bodies so far, the Yokohama Settlement's Municipal Administration and the Commandant of the Yokosuka Naval Base had finally decided that the public had the right to know that a lunatic with a sniper rifle was out in the Settlement somewhere. Predictably, reporters from every major publication in the Area and even a few from periodicals back in the Homeland had descended on Yokohama like camera-wielding sharks.


This had done nothing to reduce the crushing pressure on Inspector Garcia's shoulders, and by proxy, on Corporal Kururugi.


From his seat behind the wheel, he could see a small crowd of the bastards mobbing a beleaguered police lieutenant, his gas mask slung across his chest and his face visible as he tried to field the insatiable questions.


"Better him than us," Inspector Garcia remarked, clearly following Corporal Kururugi's gaze. "We might be able to get some actual work done while he's holding the gutter press at bay."


"I hope you're right, Nelson," Corporal Kururugi said without much hope. "How much do you want to bet that they've already frightened off anybody who might've seen something?"


"I'm not much of a gambler," Inspector Garcia demurred, "it's a bad habit to get into. Either way," he popped open his door, "we won't find any leads sitting here. Up and at them, Corporal."


"As you say, Inspector."


A squad of Honorary Britannian police stood guard around the chargers, but their sergeant waved the inspector and the corporal through. The same squad seemed to have drawn some sort of short straw, that or they were the "usual detail" for standing guard around public crime scenes; Corporal Kururugi recognized the men present from the last two attacks. He tapped his fist against his breastplate to the sergeant, before following Inspector Garcia over to the tarp-covered body.


Inspector Garcia was already kneeling by the corpse, an active recorder sitting next to him. Corporal Kururugi dutifully pulled out a pocket notebook, ready to copy down anything Inspector Garcia wanted in writing or to record his own thoughts.


By now, they had worked out something of a routine.


"Victim was a light-skinned Britannian woman in her late thirties," Inspector Garcia began, flipping the tarp back. "The victim has been identified as Joceline Tennyson by her driver's license and was the wife of Captain Steward Tennyson and mother to Joshua and Alice. The victim was five foot five inches and just over a hundred and fifty pounds. Victim has medium-length auburn hair and was wearing a yellow and white sundress.


"Victim was shot through the neck from behind while recharging her minivan's battery," Inspector Garcia continued, his voice clinical and emotionless. "I am not a medical professional, but judging by the wound and the state of her neck, I think the bullet passed straight through her spinal column before exiting through her throat."


That, Suzaku thought, was a very fair assessment, considering that the "state of her neck" is practically severed.


"After exiting the victim's body, the round continued through the window of her minivan, and…" Inspector Garcia stood back up and squinted through the holed window, "out through the window on the other side of the minivan. Trajectory looks close to flat, but it might be proceeding at a slight uphill angle."


Corporal Kururugi made a note to point this out to the crime scene techs, once they showed up.


"Considering that the round still had sufficient velocity to pass through the minivan and probably on into the recharging station itself after passing through the victim's neck, it seems reasonable to conclude that a high-powered rifle was used for this attack." The inspector scooped the recorder up from the pavement and flipped the tarp back down over the late Mrs. Tennyson. "Unless this was a copycat, the use of a high-powered rifle on a seemingly random housewife indicates that this is another Yokohama Sniper attack."


Corporal Kururugi followed Inspector Garcia past the other chargers and into the recharging station. The two clerks unlucky enough to be on duty at the time were standing awkwardly behind the counter, another Honorary policeman keeping an eye on the pair.


Inspector Garcia ignored all three in favor of the fresh bullet hole in the front window.


"The bullet penetrated the window and," he craned his head up and around, "lodged…" he tilted his head down slightly, "just above the beverage coolers. A height of probably six and a half feet, definitely not more than seven feet. As Mrs. Tennyson was five foot five according to her license, this definitely represents an upward trajectory."


A note of excitement had crept into the Inspector's voice; Corporal Kururugi felt a similar excitement welling up inside. That angle said something very interesting about the shooter's location when he had fired the shot – namely, that the shot had to have been fired from a very low elevation and from a location very close to the target.


"So," Inspector Garcia continued into the recorder, "this shot rules out the idea that the perpetrator is firing from an elevated position, at least in some cases. I will have to check back over the scene records from previous locations, but in this particular instance, the upward trajectory is unmistakable. However, this raises further questions. If the shooter is at or below ground level, how are they escaping notice?


"Corporal," Inspector Garcia said, turning to Kururugi, "please go ask the clerks for their security cameras' recordings. Also, ask if they remember seeing or hearing anything. I doubt they will, but the formalities must be observed."


Corporal Kururugi sketched a salute and ambled over to the clerks, who gazed suspiciously at him. He smiled blandly back at the two Britannians. While they might be full citizens of the Empire and his superiors, he was vested in the borrowed authority of an Inspector of the Imperial Bureau of Investigation, his own Honorary status and Eleven features be damned.


"Where do you keep your cameras' recordings?" He asked, purposefully blunt and enjoying a slight thrill at their clear distaste at his presumption. "Do the street-side cameras record to the same computer or whatever as the ones inside the store?"


"There's only one camera in the store," the older of the two replied, "it's behind the counter, looking over the cash register. There's one camera looking at the chargers, and one focused on the exit."


Corporal Kururugi waited patiently, his bland smile as immovable as granite.


A moment later, the clerk grudgingly added "...Corporal."


"So where're the recordings?" Corporal Kururugi asked, reiterating his question. "Hurry up, I don't have all day."


The younger clerk looked like he was about to say something, looked from Corporal Kururugi to the other uniformed Honorary Britannian standing by and over at the suited Inspector Garcia, and thought better of it.


"They're in the back office," the older clerk said, rising from his stool. "Here, I'll show you."


A few minutes of scanning fast-forwarded footage later, Corporal Kururugi reported back to the Inspector. "Bad news, Inspector. The cameras aren't pointed toward anything off the recharging station's grounds. There's some good footage of Mrs. Tennyson getting hit, and there's a few frames of the clerks cowering behind the counter once the bullet went through the window, but nothing else."


"That," Inspector Garcia frowned, "is unfortunate."


"It is," Corporal Kururugi agreed, "but when I asked that gentleman about other cameras," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the older clerk, who had returned his place behind the counter, "he said that there's a camera on the traffic light down the street. If the shooter was firing from street level, we might see something."


"Good thinking, Corporal!" The Inspector grinned, the expression boyish on his tired, unshaven face.


"As you say, Inspector," Kururugi agreed, his tone easy and bland.


For a moment, Inspector Garcia stood still and looked off into the distance, clearly mulling over his options. Then, his eyes refocused on Corporal Kururugi and the familiar smile bobbed back into place. "Well, go ahead and help hold the press off, and for God's sake don't say anything they could quote. The forensic lads should be arriving soon to make an official report of the scene and I need to call and get some sergeant assigned to prying that traffic camera footage out of Public Works' sticky hands."


With a smart salute, Corporal Kururugi turned on his heel and started heading for the door, reinvigorated by the sense of progress being made. Before he got more than a few steps away, he heard Inspector Garcia behind him.


"Oh, and Corporal?" Kururugi turned. "Good work, finding an alternative source of footage. Let's hope that it has our Sniper in it, yes?"


"Yes, Inspector!" Corporal Kururugi replied with an answering grin, thrilled by Nelson's approval. "The sooner we can find him, the sooner justice will be done!"


JULY 5, 2016 ATB
POLICE STATION, FUNAKOSHICHO WARD, PORT YOKOSUKA IMPERIAL NAVAL BASE
0637


To the gratified surprise of Corporal Kururugi, it took very little investigation to solve the twin mysteries of the shooter's placement and their amazing ability to escape from the crime scene without detection. With the benefit of hindsight, as he stood in front of Inspector Nelson's desk, he supposed the answer should have been obvious.


Obvious, sure, but there's no way I would've ever come up with it!


"Well done, Corporal," Inspector Garcia murmured as he flipped through frame after grainy frame of traffic camera footage. "Very well spotted."


"It didn't take much…" Corporal Kururugi began before pausing to stifle a yawn. He'd managed to catch a few hours of sleep early in the morning as he'd waited for the labyrinthine police bureaucracy to spit out the information he'd needed. "Just had to spot the pattern."


He had found the first piece of that pattern in the topmost picture of the stack on Nelson's desk. Timestamped seconds after the frame of the recharging station surveillance footage of the bullet smashing through the window, the traffic camera mounted on the stoplight at the nearby intersection had caught a white panel van in mid-turn, its rear oriented directly towards the station.


The van's plates had unfortunately been outside of the frame, the car turned at just the wrong angle, but the vehicle had stood out to Corporal Kururugi when he had first reviewed the footage while Inspector Garcia had immersed himself in the forensic report.


For the first time in his short career as a counter-insurgency agent, Corporal Kururugi Suzaku had a hunch.


Following this hunch, he had filed further requests with the Directorates of Public Works managing several different Settlement wards for any camera footage they possessed near the locations of previous Yokohama Sniper attacks. In most of those cases, the footage of the days of the attacks had no van to be seen. But after hours and hours of searching, Corporal Kururugi had found vans of the same apparent make and model lingering near the scenes of four different attacks throughout the month of June.


And in one of those scenes, Corporal Kururugi found a frame where half the van's license plate had been captured. Between that half of a plate number and the description of the van, and with the increasing pressure of the Prefect of Yokohama and the Commandant of Yokosuka Naval Base behind the investigation, records of a van recently stolen from a landscaping business in Kanagawa turned up with remarkable rapidity.


"That's really all it takes sometimes," Inspector Garcia replied, already reaching for the phone. "Honestly, finding these patterns among the chaos and following up on them, pursuing the niggling little leads down… That's what makes a good investigator, Suzaku."


The Seven Honorary paused mid-dial to shoot Corporal Kururugi a proud smile. "You did very good work this time, Corporal. Very good work indeed."


Jerkily, Corporal Kururugi nodded a reply, trying not to let the sudden spiking pride burst across his face. Thankfully, Inspector Garcia seemed satisfied by that mute response, as he turned his attention back to his call. Corporal Kururugi vaguely listened in as Nelson passed on his discovery to the Naval Base's Commandant and soon to the head of the MP force garrisoned at Yokosuka, but only a fragment of his mind was oriented towards the call.


The rest of his sleepless focus was directed inwards, on that swelling pride and satisfaction.


The long hours spent searching grainy footage, the wheedling negotiations with petty Public Works officials and archivists, that sense of recognition for a job well done made all of it worth it. Inspector Garcia was proud of him, and more than that, was listening to him! The Bureau man put enough stock in his words to immediately put out an all-points bulletin on the stolen van.


It was an almost overwhelmingly-complete vote of confidence. Suzaku found that he wasn't sure how he felt about anybody, especially an authority figure, having such faith in his words, in him, when he had so little faith at times in his own decisions.


But that just goes to show that I need to have more faith in myself, and in the Plan, Corporal Kururugi thought as he dropped into the comfy chair across the desk from Nelson. If I have confidence in Nelson's understanding of how to succeed in Britannia as an Honorary and if he has faith in my ability to deliver the results the Britannians want to see, doesn't that indicate that I'm on the right path and I can act more confidently moving forwards?


He paused and tried to turn that tangled chain of thought over in his head. I really need to get more sleep…


"And that's that," Nelson said jubilantly as the phone rattled down into its cradle. "Every patrolling officer and camera-minder knows that finding this van is the new top priority. The Prefect is activating every officer available and the Commandant is turfing all of the redcaps out of their bunks and onto standby! As soon as we lay eyes on that van, we'll be coming down on them like a pile of bricks!"


"So…" Corporal Kururugi hesitated, "what do we do now? I mean… We can't do much until they find the van, right?"


"Well, you can go find some coffee, first and foremost." Nelson softened the barb with a smile, but nevertheless waved towards the door; with every muscle in his body screaming reluctance, Corporal Kururugi forced himself to his feet. "Neither of us have time for sleep tonight, I'm afraid. So, caffeinate yourself and splash some cold water on your face, whatever you need to get some pep in your step, because as soon as someone radios in a sighting, we need to be on-site as soon as possible."


"As you say," Corporal Kururugi nodded, reverting for a moment back into the unthinking submission that his officers in the Legion had demanded, before suddenly remembering the standing order to ask for clarification when he didn't understand Nelson's reasoning. "Why do we need to be there? Surely any prisoners will be available for interrogation, right?"


"Oh, absolutely," Inspector Garcia nodded, the scar puckering his lip twisting the cynical smile up into a sneering grimace of disgust. "That's the problem. They'll be available for interrogation by any fool of a redcap officer who wants to earn a feather in his cap by 'breaking the rebels.' God forbid the DIS bastards up in Tokyo hear about the arrest either, or we'll lose access entirely."


"You think they'll steal the credit for taking down the Sniper," Corporal Kururugi asked, his mind still slow and bloated as he fumbled to make the connection. "That they'll swoop in to take the credit…?"


"That too," Nelson admitted. "Make no mistake, Corporal; now that the news has heard about this lunatic and given him a name, made him a story, whoever is responsible for writing the coda to that story will have considerable, if short-lived, influence in Area 11. But," he added, "that's only one of two broad reasons why we need to be on hand to see this whole scenario through."


"Can you think of the other? Think about what I just said," he urged, "think about how I conduct my interrogations. Can you see it?"


"If the police or the DIS interrogate the prisoners," Corporal Kururugi said, speaking his thoughts aloud, "they'll want results and want them soon. The police in particular just want this all over as soon as possible… They've been humiliated by not being able to stop the attacks. So if they get their hands on the prisoners, they'll just force a confession…"


"And…?" Nelson prompted, leading him on.


"And they'll confess to whatever they're told to confess, or they'll die under interrogation," Corporal Kururugi concluded. "Which means that if they've got any friends, or if the Yokohama Sniper just handed their van over to one of their buddies, we'll lose the lead and the Sniper could just lay low for a few weeks and then start killing again."


"Exactly!" Nelson rose halfway out of his seat, leaning on his knuckles as he thrust his face forwards over his desk, towards Kururugi. "If I, if we, aren't on hand to keep the police at bay, they'll stomp all over this case with their ham-handed techniques, just so the Prefect can announce that all's well again! If the DIS gets their hands on the prisoners, God alone knows what they'll do, but if it means sabotaging a Bureau operation, they might just let them go! Credit aside, if we want to end Number terrorism in Yokohama, we need the Sniper once and for all!"


"...I'll get the coffee," Corporal Kururugi nodded, suddenly alert as a fresh wave of energy flowed through him. The stakes were too high to give in to his exhaustion now, and sleep's siren call suddenly seemed all but muted. "I'll even use the machine in the officer's mess so I can add a few shots of espresso to each. That lock can't keep me out."


"Make mine a double," Inspector Garcia instructed with a smile as he dropped back down into his chair. "But for God's sake man, hurry back. As soon as you're here with the coffee, we're checking a car out from the motor pool. Tonight, the speed limits won't matter - as soon as the call comes in, we'll be there."


JULY 5, 2016 ATB
HIGHWAY POLICE STATION, TOTSUKA WARD, YOKOHAMA SETTLEMENT
1023


"Hey there," Corporal Kururugi said with a practiced smile, speaking in Elevenese as he slid himself down onto the unyielding planes of the steel chair, the match of the straight-backed seat on the other side of the interrogation table, "I'm Suzaku. It's good to meet you, even under such unpleasant circumstances."


The first step, Nelson had taught him, is to establish rapport. Figure out who they are and what they need, and you'll be halfway done.


"Man," Kururugi continued with a sympathetic wince, sucking at his teeth as he looked down at the mangled hand spread flat on the dented metal surface, "they really did a number on you, didn't they? Fucking Britannians… Don't worry," he added with another smile, more comforting and soft, "you're safe now. We've got you."


The woman, fettered to the chair across from him, remained silent, but that was fine. Corporal Kururugi didn't need her to say anything; after months in the care of Inspector Garcia, it was easy to read everything he needed to know at the moment on her face.


Search for tells, for signs of emotional insecurity. A clammy brow, clenching hands, facial twitches, all indicate nerves and a sense of insecurity. A clenched jaw or a red face probably means they're angry, but could be a cover for nervous anxiety too.


"I know, I know," Kururugi waved a dismissive hand, smiling conspiratorially at the subject as if he were sharing a joke, "an Eleven in Britannian uniform? I'm a traitor to our people, our gods, and the Yamato Spirit. I've heard it all before, but believe it or not, I just want what's best for our people. Just like you, right?"


Almost involuntarily, the woman opened her mouth and seemed on the cusp of speaking, but then she shot a frightened look at the broad expanse of opaque glass that made up one of the walls of the room.


"Don't worry," Corporal Kururugi soothed, plastering a smile he certainly didn't feel on his face. While his smile was only skin-deep, he would privately admit to feeling a spark of anticipation; she was about to speak! Already, a crack had appeared in her facade! "There's only another Honorary behind that glass. He's making sure the local cops don't try to sneak back in."


Don't lie if you can avoid it; cultivate a sense of trust with the subject, to encourage a spirit of reciprocity.


He carefully let the smile lapse into a perturbed frown, shaking his head as he gazed down at the woman's left hand again, letting his eyes linger on the twisted fingers and the mangled joints. "That must really hurt. We'd better get you to a doctor soon; I can't promise anything, but if they can at least get everything pointed the right way again, you should make a full recovery… Oh," Kururugi added offhandedly, "and give you something for the pain too."


Left unsaid was the implication that not seeing a doctor soon could lead to lasting damage and greater pain, along with the corollary that only cooperation could purchase access to medical assistance. Nelson had taken great pains to point out that pain perceived was pain received. This woman already knew what could happen if she didn't cooperate, it was up to him to show her that she had choices.


"I…" For the first time since Corporal Kururugi entered the overly bright room, the Eleven spoke. "I… I'm not going to say anything… There's no point."


Her voice was raw and brutalized, presumably as a result of the screams the prefectural Britannian highway police had ripped from her throat when they'd broken her hand and twisted her fingers out of their sockets. Coupled with the obvious bend in her leg, a product of the highway crash that had ended her frantic escape, the Eleven was in bad condition. Honestly, the fetters to the chair were redundant; it's not like the suspect could have walked out under her own power.


Corporal Kururugi found it difficult to care, although he did his best to pretend otherwise. Indeed, the only outrage he felt over the clear torture the prisoner had sustained before Inspector Garcia had arrived to put an end to it was the clear illegality of the Highway Police's actions.


Still, it's hard to blame them… he mused behind his sympathetic smile, carefully modeled after Nelson's own. She didn't pull the trigger, but she was the driver for the bastard who put one of their buddies in the hospital this morning, and another in the morgue.


It had been a very busy morning. Shortly after the all points bulletin had gone out on the van, a spectacularly unlucky patrol unit had noticed the stolen vehicle trundling along down a frontage road. The two-man patrol had tried to pull the van over, but as soon as they'd turned on their flashing red and blues, a hail of gunfire had smashed through their windshield, killing the driver and sending the police car off into an uncontrolled crash trajectory with a telephone pole.


All units in the district, including the borrowed car with Corporal Kururugi behind the wheel and two VTOLs launched from Yokosuka, had converged on the Britannian suburb on the southern edge of the Yokohama Settlement. Amazingly, the van had been quickly cornered and, after a brief pursuit, ran into an unyielding brick wall by the panicking driver, who now sat across the table from Corporal Kururugi.


But, he knew, she isn't the Sniper. Or, at least, she's not the triggerman in the group of people we called the Yokohama Sniper.


The search of the van had turned up three sleeping bags and an abundance of detritus, more than enough to suggest that multiple people - multiple women, judging by the abandoned clothes - had been living in that van over the last few weeks.


Of whom only one, the driver, had been caught.


And by the time Inspector Garcia and I finally caught up, the cops had already dragged her back and begun their own little amateur interrogation. And that's not even getting into what else we found in the van…


"What makes you say that," asked Corporal Kururugi with a quizzical frown. "You're not the one we want, are you?"


"When's that ever mattered?" came the instinctual bitter response, exhausted emotion dripping from every word. "When the hell has that ever mattered, Brit? We both know what happens to anybody your side doesn't like, and anyone next to them too. No matter what I say, it's all gonna end the same way."


Long trenches full of bodies, disappearing under shovelload after shovelload of soil… What would happen once word of those long scars in the earth leaked out? The whole street reeked of an unholy mixture of burning garbage and overcooked pork… "I swear... Suzaku, I swear! I'm going to obliterate Britannia!"


"That's not always the case," Corporal Kururugi replied with easy reassurance, cramming the memories of Toyama and Christmas back into the vast mental storehouse that was always under lock and key. "There's plenty of leeway, depending on the circumstances of the matter. Not to put too fine of a point on it, but… there's lots of people who want all of this 'Sniper' business to end sooner rather than later. They're willing to make significant concessions to make that happen."


The anxious, self-centered character, Nelson had advised him after the interrogation of a previous subject equally concerned with their own self-preservation, is fearful, although they constantly try to conceal their fears, often by presentations of bravado. Don't push back on these displays, but instead try to reward their "courage" by soothing their fears. If pressed for time, offer them a way out with an obvious catch.


"Uh huh…" The subject didn't seem convinced, but Kururugi felt like she really wanted to be convinced. In his estimation, she didn't want to die, but didn't see a way out of her situation. "That's why your thugs fucked up my hand, right?"


"They're not my thugs!" Kururugi let a bit of "Suzaku" slip into his voice, along with a taste of his very real disgust at the unsanctioned violence. "I am truly sorry for the way they treated you, Miss…?"


"Kanae," the subject muttered, prompted by his pointed silence. Her reply was reflexive; the fatigue and fear inspired by her situation were undermining her focus and will to resist. For the first time, she had answered one of his questions. He felt a slight thrill at the petty but important triumph; Nelson had taught him that the first answer was always the most difficult, and that the next answer would always come easier.


"I am truly sorry for your treatment, Miss Kanae," Kururugi repeated, "and believe me, I want to get you to the hospital as soon as possible to get that hand looked at, and your leg. It's amazing that you're still able to hold yourself together after so much pain! But…" he shrugged apologetically, "I don't have that much say, you see? I need something to convince the police to release you to my custody."


It's working.


Kururugi could see it in Kanae's eyes, the way her walls were crumbling. Her hand must be a mass of pain, and her leg little better; beyond that, she was sitting in an interrogation room in a police station basement, the worst nightmare for any Number terrorist. And, Kururugi was increasingly certain, Kanae had never been strong, but preferred instead to follow the strong.


And here in this little room, even though he wore the uniform of her enemies, he was strong.


And that means I can protect you, Kururugi thought, keeping his face earnest and open, shamelessly using his youthful and seemingly guileless features to his advantage, I can get rid of your pain, get your hand splinted and leg treated, and best of all, I can keep the cops and the executioner's wheel away from you…


"I need something," he reiterated, catching Kanae's eyes and holding them with his own, "something that I can send them off on, something to distract them. They're angry, you see? Someone shot their buddies this morning. But it wasn't you, right? They don't need to have any interest in you… especially not if they know who they should be interested in instead."


A dry tongue flicked nervously across split lips. Kanae was wavering.


"I…" She swallowed convulsively. "I didn't shoot anyone… Not here. Not Britannians."


"I know that," Kururugi replied with a supportive nod and a smile. "You were the driver, weren't you? We found the hole in the back of the van, by the way. That was a really clever idea, concealing a firing hole just above the license plate! And that sliding panel was some good work too. But there's no way you could have shot a gun out that hole while you were driving… And we didn't find the gun either."


Kururugi paused for a moment, letting Kanae simmer, before asking, "Where is the rifle, Kanae? Where are the other two girls who were riding around with you?"


Kanae wavered.


Kanae fell.


"I…" she licked her lips again, "I don't know… One of them's been gone for weeks… She was smart enough to see how things were going… I… I think that's what made… Made her go nuts. And… Once we knew the van was made… She said we should split up, and meet back at…"


The words caught in the injured woman's throat.


"Do you need some water?" Kururugi asked, all solicitous concern. "I'll get you some, and I'll get the key to unlock your wrists so you can drink… But first, tell me about her."


And so, haltingly at first but with increasing fluidity and detail as she fully collapsed, Kanae told Corporal Kururugi about the Yokohama Sniper.


JULY 5, 2016 ATB
TOTSUKA WARD, YOKOHAMA SETTLEMENT
1147


An hour and a half later, Kururugi Suzaku left the Totsuka Ward Highway Police Station, ready to join the urgent efforts to hunt down Tanaka Chihiro and her remaining accomplice and bring them to justice, assuming said accomplice hadn't skipped town already.


Behind him, a squad of Honorary Britannian police trailed out from the station with all the fearsome certainty of a gaggle of ducklings. They seemed almost terrified of the freshly issued pistols hanging at their hips, jerking their hands away from the weapons whenever their hands accidentally brushed up against the stiff leather holsters.


This is probably the first time most of them have even touched a pistol since their training ended, Suzaku thought glumly, letting a hand drift down to his own sidearm. Not exactly the team I'd want backing me up on the hunt for a dangerous terrorist, but needs must and all that.


For his part, Corporal Kururugi had redonned the familiar charcoal body armor and helmet of His Majesty's Armed Services, freed from his footlocker for the first time since he'd come to Yokohama. The perennially useless gas mask hung loosely around his neck; now freed from the 32nd Honorary Britannian Legion's command structure, he would have left the cursed thing behind entirely, were it not for the thermal imaging capacities of the built-in goggles.


And if I were still just Corporal Kururugi of the 1st Battalion, 2nd Company, I'd never have drawn my last piece of equipment from the stores… But the Bureau of Investigation and its auxiliaries are beholden to different rules.


Indeed, while the leadership of the Armed Services in Area 11 had seen fit to prohibit their Honorary soldiers from using any weapon more deadly than a pistol, and even that in only the most dire of circumstances, the Bureau leadership in Area 11 consisted solely of Inspector Nelson Dutra Garcia at this point, which meant that Nelson had a practical monopoly on the Bureau's fearsome reputation. A reputation he had already drawn on three times this morning.


First by seizing custody of Morita Kanae and ordering, as soon as Corporal Kururugi completed his interrogation, her immediate transfer to the Richard Hector Memorial Hospital in the Yokohama Settlement for medical treatment. Inspector Garcia had gone to the hospital with the prisoner to both keep her under his supervision and to continue the interrogation where Corporal Kururugi had left off, but before he had left, he had commanded the Highway Police to give Corporal Kururugi command over a draft of Honorary Britannian officers to assist him with his mission, and that this draft and Corporal Kururugi be armed from the station's stocks.


The second and third uses of the Bureau's authority, respectively.


"I've given you the tools you'll need, Suzaku," Nelson had said once the police lieutenant in charge of the station had left the observation gallery behind the interrogation room's one-way window. "Now, it will be up to you to use them to deliver results. You've done magnificently so far; keep it up. Make the Bureau proud. Make me proud."


That was a mission Corporal Kururugi Suzaku was determined to complete. It was the chance he had dreamt about for months. Ever since Christmas.


And if I can capture Tanaka Chihiro in my capacity as a deputized Bureau agent after extracting the information leading to her in that same role, then the entire operation will suddenly become a Bureau operation. A successful, clean-cut operation in Area 11 will give Nelson an opportunity to request further support and a longer-term assignment here…


Corporal Kururugi very carefully didn't notice Suzaku's enthusiasm at the prospect of Inspector Garcia's deployment to Area 11 extending.


A Bureau field office here in the Area will make everything better, Suzaku explained, the thought curiously tense. The Bureau will keep a closer eye and a tighter hold on the Purists, putting an end to any further "Incidents" like back in Tokyo, which will benefit all Honoraries. The Numbers will benefit too, if the counter-insurgency tactics that Inspector Garcia's predecessors used in the Old Areas replace the wasteful and indiscriminate slaughter of the filtration operations or the retaliatory quotas!


"Alright," Corporal Kururugi turned back to his little knot of Honorary Britannians, who clustered warily in front of him. "Listen up, boys and girls. We've got a job to do."


The ten men, all older than him by at least five years, let the remark pass without challenge. He was a stranger to them, but his military gray uniform and the familiarity the man from the Bureau had shown him, clapping him on the shoulder and shaking his hand before hopping aboard the ambulance taking the prisoner to the hospital, made the pecking order abundantly clear.


"The Yokohama Sniper is out there, somewhere in the Totsuka Ward. We're going to find her."


That little revelation sent a shiver of unease through the cluster of police officers, but none of them spoke up. None of them wanted to mark themselves out as weak, as lazy, as fearful cowards.


And in doing so, they only prove how frightened they really are. But if they fear the system, they'll be happy to make sure everybody else is just as afraid as they are.


"She's just one woman, far from home and all alone," Corporal Kururugi went on, his tone deliberately casual as he addressed the men in a way his old fireteam would have been shocked to hear, "although admittedly a dangerous one. But," he patted the butt of the rifle slung over his shoulder, "we're dangerous too, aren't we?"


I need to relate myself to them; if I'm a stranger, they won't trust me and will be slower to take my orders. Use inclusive language.


"I won't lie to you," Corporal Kururugi continued, pointedly making eye contact with policeman after policeman, holding their gaze for a moment before moving on. "This isn't going to be easy. Someone could get hurt. I can't promise everything will be all nice and safe. If I could, well…" he shrugged and leaned back against the nearest police car, "do you think they would have sent us out?"


That brought a light wave of feeble smiles, and Corporal Kururugi smiled back, sharing the common experience of Honorary soldiers given an unpleasant and dangerous task.


"This is how the Britannians think this is going to go," Kururugi continued, theatrically lowering his voice and prompting his audience to lean in almost conspiratorially. "They think we're bait. The Sniper is a rabid bitch, and as soon as she sees our uniforms, she's going to start shooting. We'll cower and hide, but most importantly we'll hold her in place while our betters swoop in to make the arrest and claim all the credit."


Grimaces and nods, but no trace of surprise or dismay appeared on the faces of his fellow Honoraries. These men knew the score; they, Kururugi was bitterly certain, had never bought into the Britannian propaganda the way a younger Suzaku had. Just like his former comrades in the 32nd Legion, their low expectations prevented any disappointment.


On the other hand, expecting nothing makes any sign of something better welcome.


"That's not how this is going to go." The change of tone was textbook Nelson; Corporal Kururugi even heard a faint touch of the melodic accent of Area Seven7 in his voice as it strengthened with conviction and certainty. "Not this time. This time, we will take the credit along with the danger, for both ourselves and for the Bureau of Investigation, who Inspector Garcia has pledged will reward us if we bring the Sniper down."


There were no cheers, no smiles, no signs of enthusiasm, but Corporal Kururugi hadn't expected any. These were disillusioned men, working for a paycheck and the vague hope that things wouldn't get any worse. But none of them stepped back, none of them looked outwardly skeptical or incredulous.


It will have to do.


"Load up, men," Corporal Kururugi directed, straightening up from the police car and stepping aside. "The Sniper's gone to ground, and she's had two hours to dig herself in. Time to pull her back out and show the world what happens to those who would raise a hand against His Majesty's citizens, Honorary or not!"


Minutes later, the two overloaded squad cars were rolling out through the web of secondary roads surrounding the Totsuka Station, making their way towards the High Street central artery.


The miniature convoy was slow going without the flashing lights and sirens; it was almost lunchtime, and traffic thickened with every minute. With five men packed in one car built for four and six in the other, and with the heat of a summer's noon beating down, it was a claustrophobic, stuffy trip across town. Behind the wheel of the lead car, Corporal Kururugi tried to ignore the sweat rolling down his spine, infuriatingly difficult to scratch under his body armor.


A constant stream of updates drizzled from the dashboard radio. Corporal Kururugi kept half an ear open for anything pertinent; mixed into the usual police chatter were the occasional updates from the units still patrolling the ward hunting the Sniper. The VTOLs had gone home, but the local police force was still out and about, making their presence known.


And no doubt drawing all kinds of cushy overtime, Corporal Kururugi thought sourly. Still, if I can complete this mission… I'll get payment in a far more valuable coin.


Smiling at the thought in a conscious attempt to cheer himself up, Corporal Kururugi idled up to the next traffic light. As he waited, he scanned the surrounding crowd of mostly Commoner Britannians, noting the industrious way they scurried from place to place, many with beverages or wrapped sandwiches in hand. It almost seemed dreamlike, how ordinary it all was. So divorced from the chaos of the morning, or from the shameful horror of Toyama…


"All units! All units!" Suddenly, the radio dispatcher's urgent tone had Corporal Kururugi's full attention, everything else fading into irrelevance. "Gunfire reported on Charleston Square. Civilian casualties reported. All units, standby for situation updates and dispatch."


Before the dispatcher was done with her update, Corporal Kururugi was already flicking on the lights and sirens. Trusting the squad car behind him to follow suit, he floored the accelerator and squealed out into the intersection.


Charleston Square is just a few blocks ahead, straight down High Street, Corporal Kururugi thought, remembering the map of the Yokohama Settlement he'd committed to memory a few weeks earlier in the course of his chauffeur duties. A big open field, surrounded by trees and a few paths. Lots of community events happen there. The place is surrounded by plenty of tall buildings… hotels and the like, along with the Angels Triumphant Britannic Church. A perfect killing ground for a sniper. Why the hell didn't I think to go there immediately?


"Uhh, Corporal?" Kururugi spared a look over at the man sitting in the passenger seat, who swallowed nervously but pressed on. "Didn't the dispatcher tell us to standby and wait for orders?"


"She told the police to standby," Corporal Kururugi corrected. "We're not 'all units'. We're Bureau, and we don't answer to them."


Not unless we screw up, that is, he silently added as he turned his eyes forwards once more. Best not to fail, then.


From his driver's seat, Corporal Kururugi watched as the normal run of daily life disintegrated before his eyes. As he raced closer and closer to Charleston Square, the sidewalk-bound crowds of pedestrians scrambled for cover, or otherwise stampeded back the way he'd come. Most drivers had the sense of mind to likewise turn back the way they had come, but some lost their heads completely and lept from their cars for cover, leaving abandoned cars cluttering the road.


Unfortunately, a delivery truck driver appeared to have split the difference by trying to turn in the middle of the intersection at the southeast corner of Charleston Square, where High Street met Elizabeth Avenue, before giving it up as a bad job and running away, leaving his truck in the middle of the intersection.


"Son of a bitch!" The curse came involuntarily to Corporal Kururugi's lips, and he winced at the knowledge that Inspector Garcia would disapprove of such a display in front of the men. "Alright," he continued, slamming the car into park, "end of the ride. Everyone out!"


The fire team crammed into his car didn't need to be told twice. The five other men packed into the cruiser boiled out immediately; nobody wanted to be a stationary target in the parked cruiser, even with the truck separating them from the open air of the Square.


As the second cruiser emptied, Corporal Kururugi cautiously peered out from around the boxy frame, ears straining for the distinctive cracking hiss of rifle fire. It was a fool's errand: any such warnings would be drowned out by the cacophony all around him. Down the street, cars screeched and swerved. Civilians sheltering behind any scrap of cover available yelled at one another, voices angry and hysterical. Others whimpered into their cellphones, making calls home or to the police to tell them what they already knew.


Somewhere out on the broad expanse of green, someone screamed in agonized pain.


Turning back to his borrowed squad, Corporal Kururugi found ten pairs of eyes fixed on him, waiting for instructions. Waiting for him to tell them what to do. Looking past the Honorary policeman, he saw still more eyes fixed on him, as civilians took the cue and looked to him as a leader.


The rush of emotion at the awareness, at how all of these people, his nominal social superiors were begging for his protection, beseeching him to tell them how to escape, how to survive, was intense.


"All civilians," he called out, doing his best to project authority by speaking loudly without shouting, deeply conscious of just how good it felt to give orders, "stay under cover, and stay off your phones. The police are aware of the situation, and help is already on its way. Please keep calm, and keep your heads down."


Amazingly, none of his Britannian audience questioned why an apparent Eleven, even with a rifle and uniform, was giving them orders. More than the panicked flight, that spoke volumes about their fear.


"Now," Corporal Kururugi continued, his eyes jumping from civilian to civilian in the shelter of the truck, still trying his best to channel Nelson's unflappable charm and aura of natural command, "did any of you see anything? Did you see anybody go down, or see the shooter?"


Mute gazes and silent headshakes met him. One man wrapped his arms around himself, trying to resist the wracking shakes.


All useless…


Corporal Kururugi stuck his head back out around the truck. One side of the square, proceeding north along High Street, was lined with a multitude of two- and three-story buildings. Shops on the ground floor and presumably apartments on the subsequent stories. To his west, along Elizabeth Avenue, stood a tall hotel, somewhere between ten and twenty stories. He couldn't see past it, nor through the trees that lined the Square to the other side, but he could see a tall steeple reaching skyward over the foliage. Presumably, the church itself stood at the north end of Charleston Square.


Nothing but vantage points for a lunatic bitch and her rifle… And, Suzaku added, no shortage of targets either.


There had been some kind of open-air market happening in the Square, Corporal Kururugi saw. That, or perhaps the food trucks were always set up out in the grass at this time of day to feed the crowds of workers who needed a cheap meal on the go. Either way, while some of the market's patrons and sellers had managed to scramble to the shops or the streets leading away from Charleston Square, many were stuck behind the pitiful shelter afforded by garbage cans, trees, and benches.


At least one was down, and judging by the blood oozing from his holed head, already dead.


"Alright," he began, turning back to his men, "we're going to be as careful about this as possible, but we're going to do our duty. Our first job is to evacuate the civilians as best as we can. Split up into pairs; one of you will talk to the civvie, try to keep them calm, the other keeps their eyes up. If someone can't move under their own power, carry them over here to this truck, you hear?"


Among the chorus of "yessirs," one of the policemen asked, in Elevenese, "What about you, Corporal? What are you going to be doing?"


…Save it for later, Suzaku decided. It's a stressful time. Whatever it takes to get them moving.


"I'll be keeping a lookout for the Sniper," Corporal Kururugi replied, pointedly in Britannian, shrugging his rifle off his shoulder and into his hands. "As soon as I see something, anything… I'll let you know. If you hear the shout, drop whatever you're doing and follow me. Clear?"


It apparently was clear, and seconds later the squad started moving out. The five pairs of policemen, Honorary Citizens all, warily fanned out across the intersection, keeping one eye on their surroundings and one eye on their leader. Corporal Kururugi sidled out behind the last pair, eyes scanning the crowded sidewalks and Square.


It was a bright day, sunny without a cloud in the sky. The heat, already sultry, became oppressive as Corporal Kururugi focused on the now, putting everything else away. Nelson, Toyama, his men, the ever-watching ghost of Kururugi Genbuu, none of it mattered. None of it was real.


Only he was real. Only he mattered. He and the Sniper.


He and Chihiro.


Dazzling sunlight glinted off the windows of the hotel to this left. Minor mineral imperfections in the marble facade glittered in flecks of gold, each of which could be a glint off the lens of a scope. The branches, heavy with vibrant green foliage, swayed in the desultory breeze, and above them the distant steeple-top cross of the Britannic Church reared proud against the azure sky.


Corporal Kururugi swallowed heavily, his tongue swelling in his throat as he padded forwards. The rifle's unfamiliar weight was heavy in his hands, the metal and plastic unaccountably bulky, as if the weapon was trying to escape from his hands to join the civilians in pressing their faces into the sod and cement.


Eyes open, eyes open, eyes open…


From the trees, a crow cawed. A woman moaned. One of his pairs was darting back from the tree line, a civilian's arm over each man. The girl's yellow blouse was vibrant against the sanguine blotch in her abdomen. A gut shot.


Eyes open…


Kururugi was suddenly on the ground, his chin, unprotected by the facemask, scratching painfully against the rough grains of the cement sidewalk. Belatedly, he realized that he'd heard the crack-hissss of a round slashing through the air and had hurled himself to the ground by pure force of instinct. The injured woman screamed; her two escorts had likewise plunged away from the deadly wasp-sting of rifle fire and had dropped their cargo in the process.


Her wound torn open by the fall, the blotch began to spread across her blouse anew.


Corporal Kururugi climbed to his feet, his jaw sore and wet. He felt something trickle down his chin, running down his neck. Sweat or blood, he couldn't tell. His gloves were full of sweat. Belatedly, he realized that his rifle's safety was still engaged, and flicked it away.


Where had that shot come from? He cursed the senselessness of it, and his own failure to get a direction from the shot.


He was certain the Sniper would give him another hint soon.


His whole body felt tense, heavy with electric energy that Corporal Kururugi had to struggle to control. Muscles were locked tight as his fingers clasped down on fore- and hand-grips. The heat was unbearable, now that the breeze had gone. A policeman was leading a trio of Britannians in suits back towards the truck, his almond eyes almost bulging from his face with nerves. His partner brought up the rear, his pistol in his hands and pointed skyward as he walked backwards, his sidearm held aloft like some protective charm and about as useful as an ofuda in warding off a sniper's shot.


From up ahead, to Corporal Kururugi's northwest, out on the green of the Square, a man screamed in sudden agony. An aproned man, still absurdly wearing the paper dixie hat of a food server, stood up from his worthless shelter behind a park bench, blood streaming from his mouth and from the hole in his neck. One of his policemen, only feet away from the unfortunate man, reeled away from the dying man, his hands darting to his holstered pistol. His partner, who had been trying to coax another man up from behind a mobile grill, dove for cover next to the civilian, his face a pale streak in Kururugi's adrenaline-blurred vision.


It was a perversion, how relieved Corporal Kururugi was that a man was dying, his last breaths drowned in his own lifeblood. And yet, to see it happen, to finally bring the anticipation to an end… To finally feel that tension snap, to know that the time of waiting was over, and the moments of action had begun?


Freedom.


"To the north!" Corporal Kururugi bellowed, already running. "The bitch is to the north! Follow me, men!"


The blood was pounding in his ears as he ran, the adrenaline that had jangled every nerve and constricted his vision to a hyper-sensitive pinpoint finally given reign to send him flying like an arrow across the pavement and grass. He couldn't hear his men behind him, but Corporal Kururugi couldn't hear anything over the heaving in his ears, nothing except for the crack-hisss of another bullet flying overhead, and the distant, irrelevant scream of a man down. Irrelevant, because it was not him, and he was running, charging.


Above him and before him towered the church, a massive building of dusty red and creamy white, with a steeple as supremely proud as the man who ruled the Holy Empire. Tall windows in iridescent blues, greens, and imperial purple suggested at the divine mysteries of royalty, of power. High above in the steeple, through a yellow-tinged window, Corporal Kururugi could dimly see a suggestion of a massive bell… And could see a shadow darting from window to window.


"The church!" He yelled again, his wind coming deep and strong as he ran. The rifle, previously so heavy in his hands, had all the mass of his childhood training sword, practically a stick. "The bitch is in the church!"


Grass turned to pavement once again as Corporal Kururugi hurdled over the ornamental hedge separating the Square from the perimeter sidewalk. He was so close to the church now, so close! Only a handful of parked cars, a stretch of asphalt turned sticky and soft under the summer heat, and the flight of stairs rising up to the edifice separated him from the door leading into the vestibule, painted red and banded with black iron in the old style.


He felt, rather than heard, the shot.


Standing in the shadow of the steeple, the Yokohama Sniper had snapped off a shot at the last possible second, just before he lunged under her line of sight. He had no idea how she could have overlooked him during his charge down the length of the Square. Maybe she hadn't. Maybe she shot at him, but he simply hadn't noticed, his whole world reduced down to the tunnel stretched ahead of him.


He didn't know. An overwhelming explosion of pain as his vision disintegrated into a momentary flash of searing white light was all he knew. Immediately matched with the fiery coal under his helmet burning a hole straight down through his scalp.


Stumbling steps carried him forward into the side of a parked car. The velocity of his running leap exhausted, he reeled back from the unexpected obstacle. The urge to slump down behind the pitiful shelter of the sedan, to collapse onto the hard, hot asphalt, and to claw at his aching head, was almost overwhelming.


If I stop and sit down here, Suzaku thought, ludicrously calm in the near-blind chaos as Corporal Kururugi desperately blinked the starbursts out of his vision, she will kill me. She can still shoot me from here, and the car isn't tall enough to block her vision.


I can't die yet; I can't let myself die yet! Not with a chance to start the Plan in earnest just within my grasp!


With renewed energy, Corporal Kururugi half slid, half skidded around the car's trunk. One hand braced against the shining silver surface whose reflected light made his blurry eyes weep, the other holding fast to his rifle. Another crack-hisss slashed down from above, and off to his left where one of the cobblestone paths through the park led out onto the street, he heard a gurgling scream.


He didn't give himself time to think about who that could have been, or how close it was to his own fate. He needed to push on, to bury the fear, the pain, and keep moving. Don't think, just move. Move. Move, move, move!


The sun-softened asphalt sucked at his boots as he sprinted madly across the road, rifle clasped to his chest as he dashed for the shelter of the monolith rising before him. The stairs, broad and gentle, suddenly loomed up like the very stones of some vast mountain, rising to the heavens or at least to the promise of sanctuary and salvation behind a red-painted door. Pushing through the sudden vertigo, he flew up the steps in an almost uncontrollable wave of energy and threw his body, all of its armored weight and frantic, desperate energy, against the door.


The door flew open, bouncing of the wall behind it with a protesting groan echoed by Corporal Kururugi as he flung himself around the corner and into the vestibule of Angels Triumphant. It was like stepping into another world. The noon heat and bright, eye-searing light of the world outside vanished as he stepped into the twilight of the manmade vault. Sunlight poured in through the open doors behind him, along with the huffing, panting remnants of his squad.


Seven of the Honorary Britannian police, he saw, had survived the run. Of the other three, there was no sign. Perhaps they were still alive and well, and had just been too cowardly or smart to charge straight at a sniper's nest. Maybe they were wounded, bleeding out on the sidewalk or the Square behind him. They were most probably dead.


At least these seven are okay, Suzaku considered, running his eyes over the group as they slumped against walls and fought to reclaim their breath. To his pride, two of the men already had their pistols drawn and pointed at the door labeled 'to the belfry.' No signs of any injury. Good… That's good…


At the thought of injuries, Corporal Kururugi suddenly remembered that he'd been shot only a minute before. Shot in the head, no less, for all that he was still ambulatory and, apparently, alive.


Swaying slightly under a sudden spike of nauseous vertigo, he fumbled with the strap's buckle, pulling the helmet from his head. For a moment, Corporal Kururugi couldn't bring himself to glance down at the protective equipment; the sudden, irrational fear that if he did, he would find a hole clean through the ballistic fibers stained red with his lifeblood, or worse still gaze upon wet pieces of his head enmeshed in the torn fibers. In an effort of will, he forced himself to look down at the helmet.


To his great relief, it was instantly obvious that the hit had been glancing at best, presumably the result of Chihiro firing too rapidly to place the shot with the same level of precision she'd demonstrated during the Yokohama Sniper Attacks. The ballistic fibers were torn in a line from the crown of the helmet halfway down to the base, before the tangential trajectory had taken the round down past his back and into the ground behind him.


If I hadn't been wearing this helmet…


Pushing the thought and the shiver such a brush with death evoked aside, Corporal Kururugi slapped the helmet back into place, wincing as the weight settled back onto his sensitive scalp and bruised skull. While the helmet had saved his life, it hadn't managed to negate all of the bullet's kinetic energy.


Could've been much worse… My sight's even coming back. Only some floaters now. And the nausea… I think… I think I've got a concussion…


"Alrigh-," he started, only to be cut off by a rasping cough. Abraded from shouted exhortations and orders to his men, his throat registered its cracked dryness. One of the policemen passed him a canteen, which he took gratefully and drank from before passing it back with a nod of thanks.


"Alright," he began again, trying to focus through a sudden wave of wooziness "we've got her cornered up in that steeple. Only one way down, but that also means there's only one way up. We can't leave her just sitting up there taking potshots at the public."


Nobody spoke up. Most looked resigned. The one officer without a partner, who Corporal Kururugi thought he recognized as one of the pair who he had seen carrying the injured girl, looked angry.


They're just as silently obedient as the men back in the Legion were, Suzaku noted. It wasn't a happy thought. Silently obedient doesn't mean much if they drag their feet or only follow my orders if I'm standing behind them with my finger on the trigger. Sullen obedience isn't good, not good enough. Not for an elite group. That was my mistake last time.


Nelson would want me to lead them, not just drive them.


"Did anyone see what happened to the other three?" Kururugi asked, trying to control the ache in his head as he attempted, at this late juncture, to show concern for the strangers put into his care. "I was a bit too focused on the run to look around."


A few men smiled at the lame comment, and one or two even snorted slightly. It wasn't funny, but everybody present was tense enough to laugh at anything.


Nobody relaxed. The door to the belfry seemed to loom in the corner of the collective eye.


"I saw Yasu… I mean, James, go down," one of the officers finally offered, the man who had lent Corporal Kururugi his canteen. "Took one to the shoulder, I think. He… I think he got behind a tree…?"


The officer's voice trailed off into a question Corporal Kururugi didn't know how to answer.


I wish Lelouch was here… Or Nelson. Lelouch would say something asinine but profound, and Nelson would just figure out what they needed to hear to keep them moving…


"I'm sure he'll be fine," Corporal Kururugi replied gruffly, knowing as he said it that it was probably a lie. Even if James hadn't bled out, he doubted that the Highway Police had much use for an Honorary officer with a useless arm. "What's your name, officer?"


"Eugene, sir." The name was stiff and unnatural in the officer's mouth, the reply stilted. "Eugene Araki."


Nelson would say something about a mutual bond or whatever…


"Good to meet you, Eugene…" Corporal Kururugi said, the words dropping from his mouth like leaden weights. Exhaustion crested over him, the tiredness of sleepless nights held at bay by first coffee and more recently adrenaline suddenly, inexorably returning as his surge began to recede.


It's time to move, before I fall asleep standing up… Wait, you're not supposed to sleep with a concussion, right…? I think Instructor Tohdoh told me that once… I'm so tired…


Pushing himself back up off the wall took Herculean effort. His helmet straps hung freely; he'd forgotten to rebuckle them after he put the scored thing back on. Suddenly, he realized that his rifle was still active, the safety very much unengaged.


So tired…


"Well boys," said Corporal Kururugi, then laughed at the silliness of the statement when everybody else was at least in their twenties and wondered why the men looked alarmed. "She's not coming down, so we're gonna have to go on up." He paused. "I'll go first. I've got the big gun."


He gestured with it, swinging it up at the roof of the vestibule. Every eye present followed it.


Def… Definitely a concussion. Woopie.


"She's had some time to dig in up there, so who the fuck knows what she's done with the stairs? Our source said that the Sniper's got a thing for grenades and knives, as well as rifles…" Corporal Kururugi's mouth was dry again, and he wished he had something stronger than lukewarm water to quench his thirst.


"I'll go first," he repeated, "so… If you see something, let me know."


And on that muddled note, Suzaku decided that the moment of action could no longer be put off. Crossing the vestibule to the neat little door with its neat little sign, printed in faux cursive felt dream-like. With each sleepwalking step across the plush carpeting, the door grew larger and larger. His neck, unaccountably stiff, wouldn't let him swivel his head away, wouldn't let him break his focus on the door.


Lulu could play chess in his sleep… He hated it when I called him that…


He barked another laugh.


He's probably been dead for years now… Two Britannians, one a blind paraplegic, alone in the wake of the Conquest? Well… Don't worry, Lelouch… I was supposed to die today, I think, but Chihiro fucked up her first chance. She'll get another…


The doorknob turned easily in his hand; despite the visible keyhole, it was unlocked. Corporal Kururugi hesitated, and pulled his combat knife out of his belt.


The first and only weapon most Honorary soldiers get… Well, unless you count the truncheon, I guess. And if I was chasing Lelouch through the woods near Kururugi Shrine, he'd set up a tripwire to snare me up.


Carefully, he cracked the door open just wide enough to smoothly slide the blade, sharpened to a razor-edge every morning, up and down the height of the door. At chest-height, he encountered just a trace of resistance that parted under his descending blade.


Gotcha.


Stepping back, Corporal Kururugi let the door quietly glide open on its well-maintained hinges. The same deep plush carpet that blanketed the vestibule's floor extended into the tiny room housing the staircase and up the stairs at least to the first switchback. Looking up, Corporal Kururugi noted that the stairs met a longer balcony-like structure a floor up; presumably there was an exit onto the sanctuary's upper gallery there, and then the stairs up into the steeple proper would begin.


More importantly, a grenade, Britannian Army-issue, was securely taped to the wall to his right, just beside the staircase door. A string dangled from its ring-pull pin, the other end hanging limp and impotent. If Corporal Kururugi had opened the door with any more force, he would have ripped the pin from the device and blown himself up.


"A classic…" Suzaku said happily to himself, remembering a pepper bomb Lelouch had set up just outside of his room one happy spring morning. "Didn't get the scent out of my hair for two whole showers!"


By the time he was halfway up the first flight of stairs, the first man, Private Eugene – Officer Eugene, he corrected himself – had entered the stairwell after him. To Corporal Kururugi's disapproval, it wasn't until the third man had entered the room that someone else noticed the live grenade still taped to the wall beside them.


"Yes, be careful," Corporal Kururugi muttered at the shocked curse. "And keep your voice down. No need to give the Sniper precise updates on our progress…"


Chastened, the men began slowly ascending the stairs behind him, and Corporal Kururugi resumed his trudging progress; trudging, because he was, as best as he was able, eyeballing every inch of banister, runner, carpet, and creaking pine-wood step, scanning for more improvised bombs or spring-loaded knives connected to tripwires or whatever other nonsense Chihiro had managed to cook up during her hours of preparation for her final stand. It was infuriating how his addled mind simply refused to focus, eyes turning and swiveling seemingly at their own pleasure. Every motion, intentional or not, gave him a fresh twinge of vertigo.


The next hurdle, such as it was, came not at the balcony door, but at the base of the wrought iron staircase spiraling upwards at least sixty feet, towards a trapdoor in the floor high above. A second tripwire stretched across the skeletal base, and worryingly Corporal Kururugi couldn't see what exactly it was supposed to activate. One end was firmly bound to the side of the stairs at mid-boot height, perfectly placed for an unwary soldier to activate, but the other wound around the other side of the stairs before simply going… up. Up, somewhere, to some higher turn in the stairs.


Or up all the way up, Suzaku added. The exact purpose of the trap was a mystery, either way. Even more mysterious was where Chihiro had gotten so much material to go to ground with; Kanae had referenced some sort of rebel organization, but in Corporal Kururugi's experience most Eleven insurgents had very limited resources. If an operative working independently like the Yokohama Sniper enjoyed such a wealth of explosives, that spoke volumes about the dangers of this mystery organization.


There were charges leveled against a pair of corrupt lords several months ago, Corporal Kururugi dimly remembered, trying to remember the almost forgotten news item. And something about the theft of explosives from a warehouse… Last summer?


A chill washed over him, the sweltering heat of the steeple momentarily forgotten. My outpost… It was only three kilometers away from the Shinjuku Ghetto… How long has this pack of terrorists been lurking, right under my nose? A year? Two years…?


Why am I standing around and staring at a flight of stairs? Worry about this later.


"Mind your step," Corporal Kururugi grunted as he carefully stepped over the thin wire. "There's something here."


Indeed, it wasn't until Corporal Kururugi was ten feet and two twists of the spiral staircase up in the air that someone, some idiot of an Honorary, some uniformed fool, fucked up and stepped on the line. Suddenly, the wire, heretofore invisible where it stretched up through the central axis of the spiral, thrummed into visibility as high above a bell tolled loudly.


Not a trap, he thought frantically, already running as his adrenaline surged at the memory of hissing rounds streaking from above, but an alarm! She knows where we are now!


Resisting the urge to crane his head up towards the trap door high above, Corporal Kururugi focused on nothing but running up the steps. He couldn't afford to look away from the stairs, to look up as the memory became reality with a thunderously echoing crack that put her shots under the open sky to shame. The stairs provided minimal cover, and he was in the lead. If he lost focus now, if he let his feet get caught under the iron stairs' treads, he would be horribly vulnerable to Chihiro's fire and a simultaneous obstacle to his men's advance on the madwoman's elevated position.


They might not even stop running. They might just trample over me and smash me between the stairs and down to the floorboards below.


Below him, a few of his officers were returning fire. He caught sight of Eugene through a gap between the stairs, two turns below with his face and sidearm craned almost straight up, firing away at something Corporal Kururugi wouldn't let himself be distracted by. The crack of rifle fire continued to lash down from above, and he fancied that he could almost hear the sound of the piston motor working as it propelled round after round into the accelerator coils.


How many stairs are left? How high up am I? Suzaku asked both questions before pushing the wonderings aside. No past. No future. Only the present.


Up and up, the rifle swinging side to side in his arms, a stitch growing under his ribs, under his body armor. He had lost his helmet at some point, he blearily realized, the air flowing through his sweat-damp hair pleasantly cool.


Up and up and up, until suddenly there wasn't an up anymore, only the tight confines of the clock room, a nest of gears and shafts against one wall and a vast glass clockface studded with yet more gearwork on another. And, in the center of the room, rising from the floor next to the trap door, was another, shorter staircase, practically just a canted ladder, rising to a second trap door. Presumably, the belfry was above their heads, through that second door.


Chihiro was nowhere to be seen in the clock room, although Corporal Kururugi vaguely noted a bullet hole in the ceiling just over his head, where one of his men had made a lucky shot up through the first trap door, presumably narrowly missing the Sniper.


Corporal Kururugi kept his rifle warily trained on the opening in the ceiling as he side-stepped clear of the entrance to the room, allowing the men on his heels to stumble up the last few steps after him. Five men made it, the last Eugene, who turned a sweat-soaked face towards him as the officer slapped a fresh magazine into his pistol.


"Report, Eugene," Kururugi said around his thick tongue, his saliva syrupy thick in his parched throat. "Where's the rest?"


"Dead, sir," came the expected reply. "Eddie overbalanced and fell over the railing… He might still be alive. Andrew isn't. She got him right in the fu- sorry, right in the face, Sir."


"Oh."


There didn't seem to be anything else he could say in that moment. He'd never heard either man's Britannian name before that moment, and wouldn't have been able to pick them out of the squad's initial lineup if his life was on the line.


He'd only paid attention to the uniforms, not to the men wearing them.


Mistake, mistake, mistake, muttered a voice that sounded old and fat, yet pathetically proud. No end to your mistakes, no pause in your endless betrayals. First your country, then your family, then your own command. Mistake, mistake, mistake.


"Shut up, Father."


Eugene blinked, and Corporal Kururugi realized he'd said that out loud.


"Up!" He snapped, and before he could think twice about it, Corporal Kururugi was in motion once more, pushing his flagging body for everything it could give him.


And there she was, appearing at the head of that last flight of stairs as if in answer to his call, a twisted thing that barely seemed human, much less female, down on one knee. For all that Tanaka Chihiro's face was locked in a grimace of demonic, tooth-baring hatred, her rifle was stone-steady as it pointed down at him like the accusing finger of a judgmental god.


Or the sternly unwavering disapproval of a father whose demands he could never quite appease.


His finger twitched, hours of training under first Kyoshiro Tohdoh and then under the merciless hand of Britannian drill sergeants taking over where his mind faltered. The butt of the rifle, pressed tightly against his shoulder, kicked back and tried to rear, but Corporal Kururugi's grip was iron tight and unyielding.


It was kill or be killed, and he would be damned if he died here, his work unfulfilled and the vast debt he had amassed unpaid.


But, some seductive corner of his mind murmured, what better absolution could there be for a murderer like you than dying in the pursuit of another murderer? Dying a hero has its upsides, you know…


Nelson can use your sacrifice almost as well as he could use you. Perhaps even better – after all, you wouldn't be around to fail him like you failed everyone else.


Dimly, Suzaku felt something hot pass through his hair, leaving a curiously-numb line tracing behind it that he knew intellectually would soon scream with burning pain, and he knew that for the third time that day, Tanaka Chihiro had failed to kill him.


Damn her.


He didn't fail. When it came to killing, Kururugi Suzaku had never failed.


In that way, he was not his father's son.


The first rosette bloomed on Chihiro's bracing arm, the limb inconsiderately placed between her breast and the bullet's trajectory. The second and third shots lanced over the Sniper's stolen rifle and slashed into her chest, just under the shoulder, just under the neck.


Another shot lashed past him, and Kururugi Suzaku could have wept with the misery of the moment. Killing himself for his crimes would be far too easy, his life worth far less than the debt he owed. But surely, nobody would begrudge him a death in combat at the hands of an enemy…


Kill me! Kill me, you murderous bitch!


And yet, violence had always come so easily to the only son of Kururugi Genbuu. Even as a boy, he had sparred with a proficiency that old Tohdoh had praised, naming him the most promising student he had ever taught. That training-ground violence, so intense and exhausting and artificially constrained, had been a pale shadow of this moment.


All of it, all of the beatings of criminals and dissident soldiers with fist and truncheon, even the ghostly memory of a sword stabbing into muscle gone soft and fatty with age, all had been just a pale shadow of this moment. For the first time, Kururugi Suzaku found himself in a fight to the death with another killer, and found himself utterly at home in the confrontation.


Always the traitor, even to myself…


Abruptly angry at himself for finding even a moment of comfort, he fired another burst with a quick-pull clench of his finger, squeezing not jerking.


The rage in Chihiro's eyes slipped into the shocked agony and awareness of her death as his bullets pulped her face, reeling back as cheeks and jaw vanishing in an explosion of splintered teeth and pulped meat. Charging into the cloud of aspirated blood, carried by an unstoppable momentum, Suzaku caught a last moment of awareness from Chihiro in an instant of fragmentary eye contact as he slammed into her at full speed.


For the second time that day, Corporal Kururugi's vision disappeared in a starburst of white light as his head slammed forehead-first into Chihiro's. He was yelling, but he didn't know what he was saying, what he was doing, just that there was an enemy before him and she needed to die for her failure to kill him. Was dying. Had died. Died in his arms, died in his hands, died under his croaking screams and incoherent demands, shouted down into her wide brown eyes, pretty eyes, dead eyes absurdly untouched in the intact upper half of her face.


Hands were on his shoulders, lifting him up, pulling him back, and almost sending him toppling to the ground as wave after wave of deferred agony assailed him. His whole head was a a burning star with three hateful poles, the two head wound joined by his forehead aching from the impact, but some part of him recognized that the hands were those of his men, his comrades if he dared, and that he was safe.


Corporal Kururugi Suzaku sagged, almost collapsing to his knees as the last of his adrenaline spike ebbed into nothing before his men, Eugene at his right, hauled him back to his feet.


"Someone…" His voice was a ghost, thin and reedy and whistling. "Someone get my phone… It's in my left pocket…" A searching hand thrust in, withdrawing a moment later with the cell phone in hand. Corporal Kururugi grunted out the passcode, and then added, "call Inspector Garcia. His contact is listed as 'Nelson'. Call him, and tell him…"


He looked down at his feet, at the suddenly all-too-human corpse of Tanaka Chihiro. Her eyes, a warm chocolatey brown already glazing over in death, smiled back up into his from the remaining half of her face. Dimly, he noticed that she'd had more grenades, a whole belt of them, with the pins tied together with a daisy chain of wires, the braided cord of which hung to the side, ready to be pulled.


If I had been just a bit slower… If she had been just a bit further back inside the belfry…


"Call him and tell him the Yokohama Sniper is dead." Corporal Kururugi… No, Suzaku commanded, pushing the sense of overwhelming longing and keening despair down with the dead woman as he turned to grin Nelson's smile at Eugene. "We did it… We got her. Sti…" he swallowed. "Stick with me… I'll need you. We'll need you."


Not the end, not a beginning… Just another step of the Plan.


JULY 20, 2016 ATB
NAKA WARD, HIROSHIMA SETTLEMENT
1000


Inspector Garcia had moved mountains in weeks, and the Area Administration still didn't know what hit it. In June, Area 11 had been an exclusive fiefdom of the secretive and moribund DIS, the great traditional rival to the Bureau of Investigation through the long years of the Emblem of Blood.


No more.


One of the first lessons on the art of the interrogation Inspector Garcia had taught Corporal Kururugi was the importance of information and the appearance of information.


"A suspect who thinks you know everything already will be much less cautious than a suspect who knows you're just groping around in the dark," the Bureau man had instructed. "If you don't know anything, come in with a thick file of blank paper, just as a prop. But, if you know one thing, make sure to capitalize on it. As soon as the suspect gets confident about your ignorance, spring it on them. Once their illusion of invincibility falls apart, they'll panic."


Corporal Kururugi had, from his convalescent bed, watched Inspector Garcia pull the same trick on the entirety of the Area Administration, most especially on its leader, the Viceregal-Governor Clovis la Britannia, Third Prince of the Empire. Unlike the other officials who had consented to media interviews during the height of the Yokohama Sniper attacks, Nelson had known exactly how to handle the aftermath.


He had, after all, always been convinced that between his counterinsurgent experience and Suzaku's own abilities, bringing an end to the Sniper's reign of terror was only a matter of time. He had told Suzaku as much on his hospital bed on the first day he was allowed visitors.


When the news of the Sniper's death had broken, it was Inspector Garcia informing the media of that development in the name of the Imperial Bureau of Investigation scarcely minutes after he had informed the Administration itself, thereby guaranteeing that the Bureau's narrative would get a running start. When other officials had been asked for comment, they had barely been able to splutter general assurances and tritely arrogant soundbites. When the press had called on Nelson, he'd freely offered plenty of juicy details about both the "incredible actions of our dutiful Honorary brothers" and the "badly mishandled investigation conducted by the Directorate."


When the announcement had come that Inspector Nelson Dutra Garcia, Agent of the Imperial Bureau of Investigation, would be promoted to Special Agent Garcia and put in charge of the embryonic Area 11 Field Office, everybody seemed to just accept it as the natural conclusion.


Of course the Bureau should open its first office in the New Areas in Area 11 – the Sakuradite reserves made it the newest and grandest gem in Britannia's imperial diadem! Of course they should be put in charge of anti-insurgency operations – wasn't that what the Bureau had mostly handled, over the long years of the Emblem of Blood, and hadn't they proven their competency time and time again in the Old Areas?


Information and the appearance of information…


Special Agent Garcia had even displayed magnanimity in victory, or so the public might believe. Instead of insisting that the new field office be headquartered out of the Area capitol in Tokyo, right on the doorstep of the DIS branch installed in the Viceregal Palace, he had accepted a location in the Hiroshima Settlement, at the extreme southern end of the central island of Honshu.


The general public might take this as a sign that the new darling of the Area was trying to reduce the DIS's embarrassment by giving the senior intelligence service some room to breathe. Corporal Kururugi knew better.


And, true to his promises, vocalized and implied, Special Agent Garcia had not forgotten about him. The paperwork permanently transferring him to a newly established militia unit under the authority of the IBI went through with incredible speed. Never mind that the Bureau hadn't had such units since the worst of the Emblem of Blood, when insurgencies had raged across the Old Areas as the Britannians fought amongst themselves. No less a seal than that of the Office of the Prime Minister adorned the charter of the new unit.


Command was still sadly unthinkable. A unit made up purely of Honorary soldiers and police would have represented a massive political vulnerability for the fledgling Bureau field office.


"Besides," Special Agent Garcia explained during a subsequent hospital visit, "you almost never want to be the nominal commander, Suzaku. Yes, you get the recognition, but you also lose a great deal of your freedom to operate on your own initiative. The real trick is to have someone who can misdirect attention be the public face, while the real operators handle the serious issues from a position safely out of sight among the ranks."


"But you're in charge of the field office now," Suzaku had retorted. "Where does that leave you?"


"When you're as handsome and capable as I am," Garcia smiled charmingly, an expression Suzaku now recognized as his 'reporter smile', "a cipher would simply be gilding the lily! But, alas, despite your new scar, you're not pretty enough to manage that. So, congratulations, Sergeant Kururugi, on embarking on your fresh new career of puppeteering gullible officers!"


"'I've already got some experience with that," Suzaku confessed, remembering how easy it had been to play on Lieutenant Rockwell's ethical misgivings. "Have you seen the kind of officers who get sent to Honorary Legions?"


Nelson had laughed at that, and promised more of the same, but with "lieutenants who have a greater understanding of their place in the pecking order."


Which was how Sergeant Kururugi Suzaku had found himself meeting Captain Edwin Dreyer, the newly appointed commander of the Imperial Bureau of Investigation's Counter-Insurgent Branch Area 11, IBI-COIN-11.


And, also known as the Yokohama Scouts, thanks to Nelson's "accidental" use of that name in an interview.


"Ah, Kururugi," Captain Dreyer greeted him as he knocked and entered the office, "what's the word from the Special Agent?"


"Approval came in from Pendragon, Sir," Sergeant Kururugi replied, handing the printout over, along with the envelope it had arrived in. "We're to fly out on the 20th from Tokyo. Once we hit Newcastle, there will be buses waiting to take us to the school in Guayaquil. Expected start of training is listed as the 22nd, so it looks like we'll have a day to recover from the flight."


"Capital!" The Britannian replied with a hardiness that Kururugi could hardly tell was forced. The watchfulness in the man's eyes gave him away. Dreyer knew his place indeed. "And just on time too! You've finished with your recruiting, haven't you, Sergeant? All twenty-five of your lads, ready to be all they can be?"


"As you say, Sir," Kururugi replied, following his steps in the charade. "We're all very eager to learn as much as we can, and to demonstrate our proficiency here in Area 11, Sir."


After all, Suzaku thought, Nelson is an alumnus of the Guayaquil Counterinsurgent School. He's setting me to walk in his shoes and to give me the tools I'll need to walk where only an Eleven, where only a Japanese man, can go.


"Well… good." Captain Dreyer's waxed mustache, twenty years out of style despite his middling age, twitched uncertainly. "Pass the word onto the men, would you, Sergeant?"


"Yes, Sir." Kururugi nodded dutifully, as if he hadn't already told Corporal Araki, Eugene, the news an hour earlier when he'd first gone through the Captain's mail. "I'll do that."


"Good, good… Dismissed."


With a parting salute, Suzaku left the rubberstamp behind and descended down through the Bureau's new field office, a typically overblown example of Britannian architectural sensibilities. There was so much to do to prepare, to account for, to learn… And he wouldn't waste this second chance as a leader. He'd sworn as much, first to himself, and then to Nelson.


He had a people to save and an Area to secure. If the rebels in Shinjuku that Kanae had told Special Agent Garcia about were all like Chihiro, as murderous and dead-set on a war to the knife as the Yokohama Sniper had been…


Then by the time the Britannians are finished exacting their retaliation, all of Area 11 will be just as desolate as the Yokohama Ghetto is now.


He stopped for a moment, halfway down the hallway to the stairs, and shivered at the thought. Once the Britannians' initial wave of relief at the end of the Sniper had subsided, their rage at ever being threatened had boiled up with a bloody froth the likes of which Suzaku had only ever seen before on a much smaller scale, back on Christmas…


At least this time they spared the Honorary districts, he told himself. It meant something, that Honorary soldiers bagged the Sniper. I meant something.


And bad enough that the terrorist forced the Britannians to practically depopulate an entire ghetto! If there's a whole nest of them sitting on the very steps of the Viceroy's palace, on the steps of a prince's palace, this needs to be handled very carefully indeed. Otherwise, there won't be a Japan left for me to save.


The last time the Japanese were accused of killing a prince, we lost our freedom. If another prince dies here…


Sergeant Kururugi shivered at the thought and resumed his walk towards the barracks at double speed. He couldn't let that happen. He'd come too far to let it all fall apart now.