Act 2

Ave Imperator

Chapter 5: Newton's Third Law

"Friends, subjects, and countrymen, I stand before you today to announce a great change in our national policy. As is well known, our European alliance lays in a time of great peril. The enemy we shall soon face is greater than any in our Union's history, as are our own divisions. For one hundred and nine years, I fully acknowledge that Russia has contributed to this wretched state of affairs—following the Compromise of 1919. We withdrew from politics, acting only for Russia's interests.

But no more...

My people, I have seen the path that our Union must take if we are to weather the coming storm. I have decided to place my support behind the platform of a party. But it is not the Vox, nor is it the Pax. It is not with the French, nor the Germans.

It is with the Union, and it is the Ave Imperator party.

No doubt you will consider this decision sudden, perhaps even hasty. But I can assure you that I have never been more sure. Let glorious Russia be the first nation to dedicate itself to our Union's salvation. Let us act as one, to secure a future for us all. Let the future we build for our children in the coming years be one of peace and unity, than of war and internal strife.

My faithful citizens, I leave your opinion on this party to you. Visit your local branch and decide for yourselves. My mind is clear, as is my path. For the good of the Union, there must be a European Emperor."

—[Introductory passage from Tsar Alexander's famous 'Declaration of Impetus', August 9, 2028. Available for public inspection courtesy of the Imperial Records Office.]

[September 7, 2028]

[Five weeks later]

"Building clear!"

"Building clear!"

Corporal Ivan poked his head back out into the war-torn streets of Port Said, aiming his rifle down the desolate avenue. After a moment, Sergeant Zimmer and his stick emerged from the opposite building to take up similar positions. About twenty meters overhead, Marie emitted the low hum of LIFT engines as she scanned the area.

"This block's clear," called Zimmer, almost shouting to be heard over the sounds of pitched skirmishes throughout the city, even with their helmets' integrated comms. "Two more before we hit the canal! Watch your asses! Reports say the Desert Rats are launching ambushes instead of direct engagements! Corporal, take point on the left!"

Confirming the order, Ivan dashed forward to the nearest cover—a burned-out husk of rusted metal that must have been a car some months ago, before the FPA had let the city fall to decay and lawlessness through their selective negligence. Yuri and Bernard slid in next to him a moment later. They were in a lower-class commercial section of the city, with endless strip malls full of pawn shops, laundromats, and liquor stores, their signs all bearing evidence of hasty redubbing from French to Egyptian Arabic.

On the left end of the street, an abandoned old-school gasoline station made up one block, and a discount clothing outlet occupied the other. On the right were two squat warehouses constructed from heavy steel. They looked to have been built as long-term storage for items brought in from the canal.

"Lets move quick and mark off that gas station," Ivan ordered tersely. He didn't like it. The run-up was exposed, and gas pumps weren't exactly the safest cover in a war zone.

Yuri and Bernard nodded their understanding. "On you," said Bernard.

Exhaling deeply, Ivan squatted, feeling the artificial muscles of his EXO suit coil in tune with his real ones. Then, in one charged burst, he sprinted across the open street and dove in through the station's shattered glass facade. He rolled in a practiced movement, bringing his rifle to bear on the interior. The rest of his stick followed a few moments later, one at a time.

Immediately, they began searching the station with rapid efficiency. Between Tangiers, Oran, Algiers, Tunis, Tripoli, Benghazi, Cairo, and now Port Said, they had gotten very good at it.

Across the street, Zimmer, Hans, and Hugo began stacking up on the warehouse. Hans produced a breaching shotgun, aiming it at the heavy locking mechanism of the door.

An inferno blinded Ivan as the warehouse door exploded outwards violently, the wave of heat singing his eyebrows and burning his eyes. He instinctively dove into cover behind the station's counter as streams of bullets whizzed in his direction through the sudden aperture. The rest of his stick leapt in after him, and the three huddled behind the counter as the store around them was sprayed with enemy fire.

"Fuck me!" Ivan cried, before activating his comm. "Sarge, are you alright?"

Static was his only answer.

"Hugo! Hans! Please respond!"

Static.

Even as grief welled up, compartmentalization, training, and battle instincts took over. He switched his channel to the command frequency. "Lt. Sokolov, come in."

This time, he did get an answer. Sokolov's accented French chimed back immediately, concern clear. "Corporal Ivan, Zimmer and his stick just went offline. Status?"

Yuri and Bernard returned fire at the French East African 'Desert Rat' soldiers charging out from the smoking warehouse, forcing them back inside. Bullets pinged all throughout the station, but thankfully none were capable of penetrating their cover. "Zimmer and his stick are null. Taking substantial small arms fire from a pocket of FPA soldiers. Requesting fire command of our Chariot."

"Granted. Sending it to support now, and transferring fire command to you. Also giving you operational command of your squad. Eliminate this pocket, clear through to the canal, and then evac in the Chariot. One Sin?"

Exhaling in a mental exercise, Ivan nodded to himself. "One Grace."

Receiving Sokolov's order, Marie swooped in between the two forces, her belly-mounted HMG turret targeting the FPA soldiers with mechanical coldness. Ivan glanced up and manually switched off his helmet's Select Sound Filter so that he could hear the Desert Rats die, his eyes hardening in fury. Three damn good men had just fallen, and he'd see them avenged.

Crack. Crack. Crack. Three Desert Rats were pulped by the high-caliber HMG rounds. Crack. Crack. Crack. And three more fell backwards, their bodies collapsing into the cloud of smoke generated by the explosion. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. C—

Something on a wire shot from the smoke and collided against the LEV's AEGIS. The projectile bounced off with a red sizzle, before ballooning and exploding in the manner typical to items affected by an RL-Shield. But Ivan recognized the object, and swore.

"KMF! Fuck!"

Evidently Marie's crew recognized the danger as well, as the Chariot shot backwards wildly, but it wasn't enough. Not one, but four Britannian Sutherlands emerged from the warehouse, painted in the Desert Rats' red and white colors.

Grim satisfaction turned to horror as the four Knightmares pounced on the Landing-Escort-Vehicle.

Marie tried to evade, but three of them kept her pinned with coordinated barrages of explosive KMF-AR fire—rocking her about viciously. She tried to return fire with her autocannon, but it was designed for anti-infantry, not Sutherland armor, and the shells failed to penetrate. Ivan could only watch in impotently as the fourth Sutherland tracked the LEV with its shoulder-braced 120mm cannon, like a hyena waiting for its fellows to wear the prey down, before it went for the kill. Then it finally happened.

The AEGIS flickered one, twice, then died. A moment later, a HEAT shell ensured that Marie and her crew did as well.

Like a volcano erupting, the street was engulfed by the unnatural iridescent pink of burning Sakuradite, and Ivan was forced to duck back down to avoid being caught in the fiery rain.

As he lay there on the station's filthy tiled floor, for a moment, everything became almost unnaturally quiet. Even the distant sounds of combat faded to a dull ringing. He looked across the floor to Yuri and Bernard, and verified that neither of them were faring better than he. After a steadying breath, he dared a glance outside.

He found himself face to face with a Sutherland's Factsphere, as it scanned the interior.

"FUCKING LEG IT!"

The words accidentally came out in Russian, instead of the standard French, but both of his squadmates seemed to understand his meaning perfectly fine. The three were already halfway to the back door by the time the Sutherland withdrew and began spraying the inside of the gas station. The light anti-personnel rounds shredded the shelves around them, but miraculously they were still in one piece when Ivan's armored shoulder slammed against the fire exit—blasting it clear out of its frame.

Further continuing their lucky streak, the burning Sakuradite outside the gas station chose that moment to travel down the lines and detonate the volatile tanks beneath. A second, earth-shaking explosion sent Ivan and his stick careening away, scraping along the pavement for several yards as flaming concrete peppered the area around them.

...

...

...

...

"—rt! Damn it, Corporal, report!"

Dazedly, Ivan slowly staggered to his feet, absently retrieving the rifle that had flown away during the blast. They were now in a vacant lot behind the gas station—completely obscured by a cloud of pitch-black smoke by this point.

He tapped the side of his helmet, manually activating his comm. A few choking coughs stayed his speech, but eventually he managed to wheeze a report out. "Still alive, Lieutenant. Came in to conflict with four enemy KMFs. Our Chariot is down, repeat, our Chariot is down. Unsure of current enemy armor state—"

Then he saw them. Illuminated through the smoke were three open Factspheres, leering like Satanic idols.

"Update: Three components of enemy armor still intact. Commencing tactical withdrawal."

Dirt kicked up around his feet as Sutherland anti-infantry rounds once more littered the area around him—even as he, Yuri, and Bernard fled as fast as their EXOs could propel them. He almost screamed when one bullet ricocheted into the square of his back, embedding itself deep in the armor plating and nearly penetrating the sensitive nerves of his spine.

His breath was too short in his lungs to reply as they sprinted through alley, building, and street in order to evade the pursuing Knightmares, but their Lieutenant kept up a constant stream of updates.

"Have feed on you from the Sigrún. Fire support and close-air dangerous with enemy in such near proximity. Attempting to source anti-KMF units."

Running. Dodging. Running.

"Nearby infantry units unavailable. Searching for re-taskable armor."

Dodging. Running. Dodging.

Running. Dodging. Running.

"Available armor found. Inbound in thirty seconds. Find somewhere to duck and cover."

Ivan needed no other encouragement, weaving his way into another canal-side alley. Yuri and Bernard were hot on his heels as he kicked in his seventh locked door and ushered them inside. One of their pursuers, obviously tired of the chase, fired a single KMF-AR round into the aperture as they entered.

It was only the EXO suits that saved their lives as an assault rifle shell designed to kill tanks detonated almost point blank. Worse than the gas station, he and his squad once again were violently blown away. Ivan landed on his neck in a way that he knew would have killed him were it not for the EXO's reinforcing properties. Still, that didn't make it feel any rosier, and his vision blackened. His ears rang like a gong, and he could feel a sickly wetness in them that he knew was blood.

Though he later blamed his concussion for his recollection of what happened next, in his memory, he had not been rescued by a friendly KMF.

He had been rescued by a flaming red comet that streaked down from the sky before shifting into an crimson archangel of vengeance.

Eyes glowing like blue fire, it had shrieked down from above and cut the cockpit of the first frame in half before even touching the ground.

The remaining two attempted to turn their guns on the wrathful seraphim, but to no avail. In the close quarters of the alley, all they succeeded in doing was offering their arms for the angel's shining claw to slice through.

One of them had its back to the alley entrance, and attempted to eject. Its cockpit had barely decoupled from the frame before the crimson savior's clawed hand shot out once more and reduced it to slag. As it did so, the archangel swung with its other hand and cut the final Knightmare in half with a glowing longsword. It then turned those frightening, baleful eyes onto Ivan and—

[September 9, 2028]

Ivan awoke in the Damocles' medical bay two days later to find the Union flag waving proudly over Port Said's city hall.

Lieutenant Sokolov, Yuri, and Bernard visited him shortly after waking, to explain the operation's outcome. He was told that Commander Kozuki herself had briefly diverted from guarding Emperor Zero's landhead to save his squad. Zimmer, Hans, and Hugo's bodies had been recovered from the warehouse. Bastards, every single one of the Desert Rats. Apparently, the warehouse had been one of dozens planted throughout the city, stocked with equipment and supplies for urban warfare.

Taking the port city had been costly, moreso than any other operation in the war thus far. Three hundred casualties, and over a dozen Chariots lost to surprise attacks from hidden pockets of Desert Rats. It was the birth pain that had long been denied to the Airborne.

The Desert Rats, it seemed, had done better than their Spanish North African brethren when it came to strategy. They'd finally realized after watching the Black Stars lose six divisions in a row, and then losing one themselves in Cairo, that the Airborne weren't to be taken head-on. Thus, when Zero turned his gaze towards Port Said, they'd disguised all of their installations and dug in.

But at the end of the day, the Airborne had won out. They had done it. The Northern Union Beachhead now stretched across the entire Mediterranean coast. It would only be a matter of days now before Operation Notos commenced.

"So what now, sir?"

Sokolov smiled, clapping a firm but gentle hand on Ivan's shoulder.

"Now, Corporal? We wait about four days for the Army to get into their positions, then we begin steamrolling down the east coast, until we can finally relieve our boys down south. In the meantime, enjoy your ground-leave."

Schneizel glanced up from the report at his faithful assistant. "Another terrorist attack on survey teams in Area Seven?"

"Indeed, Your Highness," said Kanon, the perplexity on his cherubic face clear as day. In his search for sufficiently-sized deposits of Sakuradite, Schneizel had been sending survey teams further and further into Britannia's empire. Area Seven, the easternmost region of South America, was normally one of Britannia's more pacified territories. The only distinguishing incidents in decades had been some moderate unrest following Zero's emboldening humiliation of Britannia in Area Eleven.

Guinevere had assured him that the region was under control, and all official reports of attempted resistance had ceased. Yet private reports of small incidents continued to seep in. Minor nobility assassinated, corporate interests sabotaged, and strategic information leaking that passed through the desks of his moles in the Union.

Schneizel frowned deeply. The problems were worse than even that, it seemed. Carine had attempted a similar intelligence blackout in Area Eleven, and that fiasco had not only seen Britannia's military might crippled, but also three of his half-sisters dead. He wouldn't let Guinevere's pride generate another incident like that. "Put a Ministerial order through to the Area's DIS. They're going to begin briefing me directly."

Kanon nodded in understanding. "Yes, Your Highness. Should I arrange for a consultation with Princess Guinevere?"

He considered this for a moment. Clearly, his half-sister was worried enough about the unrest in her Area that she was attempting to conceal it even from him. Had she failed to stamp out the resistance groups that had sprung up in it, inspired by Zero? Attacking the specialized and very expensive Sakuradite survey teams did seem like something out of his playbook.

Between attempting to find Sakuradite stores large enough for the Britannian military to tap, guiding the FPA against Zero's army in Africa, and negotiating tooth-and-nail with the Chinese Eunuchs in the Federation, the last thing Schneizel needed at the moment was an ill-inspired uprising in the South American region.

"Set it up," he sighed. "Be polite and permit her to pick the time, but ensure she understands that it is not a request."

"Understood, Your Highness."

Schneizel took a sip of tea as another thought occurred to him. Perhaps he was drawing too many similarities between the two situations, but his second failing in Area Eleven had been sending reinforcements too late.

"Has a commander been appointed to the First Imperial Air Legion yet?"

Kanon slipped a secure datapad from his pocket and fiddled with it for several moments. "Just last night, Your Highness. Princess Marrybell was given overall command of the fleet, with her Knight Oldrin Zevon given the Air Marine command."

The news made Schneizel crack his first smile of the day. He'd taken a private, personal interest in Marrybell about eight years prior, as a way to distract himself from the grief of Lelouch's disappearance.

Though technically an only child, he'd grown close to several of his half-siblings during his days in Pendragon. Lelouch, Cornelia, and Clovis primarily. Of the three, only the last was still alive. Lelouch though...

Lelouch had always been the younger brother Schneizel had never possessed. Every bit as intelligent, cunning, and ambitious as Schneizel, but lacking the callous cruelty many of the royals developed as an unfortunate side effect of their unearned status. Privately, when he ascended to Emperor, Schneizel had once planned to make Lelouch his Prime Minister. Cornelia would have been his chief general, and Clovis would have kept the nobility occupied..

But then, ten years ago, Lelouch and Nunnally had disappeared off the face of the earth.

It had hit Schneizel hard. The tragedy of the mysterious vanishing, and his impotence to investigate it. No leads, no evidence. Nothing. It had been the first time in his life that he'd felt utterly powerless about a situation. A core aspect of his ethos since then had been to ensure that he was never so powerless again.

Two years later, Marrybell mel Britannia had entered the royal scene. Her mother, Flora mel Britannia, was of a sickly disposition, and had spent most of her married life sequestered in a remote estate near Area One. Marrybell had been raised there, but at thirteen, she had apparently debuted in the Pendragon Court of her own volition.

Standing alone, a mere child in that nest of vipers, back rigid and face stern, she had reminded Schneizel of Lelouch so much that it ached.

He knew that swooping in and attempting to establish a similar relationship with her would have ended poorly, though. He'd have looked the very image of a poison-tongued elder prince, preying on his younger, more naive half-siblings. Distrust and suspicion would have always been in the back of her mind.

But that didn't mean he wasn't above pulling strings. Just a few, not enough to stunt her own development, but enough to spare her unnecessary hardship.

Ensuring her entrance to the Pendragon Military Academy, which wasn't guaranteed even for royals. Giving her a battlefield assignment in suppressing the revolts following the Area Eleven incident, during which she won many honors. And just last week, passing along a recommendation to Marshal Cornwall as to who should command Britannia's first Air Legion. Given that it was his people that invented the technology, it was give substantial consideration.

Yes, he knew that the behavior was irrational. But humans were not meant to be creatures of pure rationality. If playing the anonymous Fairy Godmother to one of his younger siblings served to ease his grief...

Well, there were far worse alternatives.

"Give her marching orders. The First Air Legion is to make for New Wolverhampton as soon as is practicable. Only as fast as the solar power systems will allow though. No sense in wasting Sakuradite, especially for a potential false alarm."

"Yes, Your Highness. Also, President Khoza sent a missive just an hour ago, through the usual intermediaries."

He half-knew what it would say, but Schneizel still cocked an ear. "Oh?"

Kanon smiled softly at his Master's eagerness. This plan had been the product of over a month's planning, and it was now ready to be put into action. The thought of dealing the Union its deathblow in a single operation sent tingles down his spine.

"Zero's Airborne have taken Port Said."

"Are Khoza's men ready to mobilize?"

"They already have."

In a rare loosening of his guard, Schneizel permitted a wicked smile to mar his princely visage. "Then give Commodore Bankes orders to execute Operation Trident."

They were still following him.

Chastain glanced sideways once again to confirm it. A hooded, white-masked woman lurked in the corner of the mess hall. She and her fellows hadn't even bothered to truly disguise the fact that they were shamelessly stalking him. For over a month now aboard this damnable airship, he'd felt their eyes upon him. Every time he looked around, he'd see one in his peripheral.

He'd reported it to Philippe, of course, but his boss could do very little about it in the immediate. It had been added to the list of things that would be brought up during Zero's inevitable Hemicycle inquest, but unless the stalkers actually did something, they were untouchable.

An idea occurred to him as he thought about that.

All he needed was the ability to plausibly say that they had attacked him. Philippe was the Prime Minister, and would back any version of events that he put forth in the future. So as long as there were no witnesses to contradict him... he'd be able to manufacture any narrative that he wanted.

Smirking, he finished his dinner and dropped the plate off at the receptacle. From the corner of his eye, the masked woman moved to follow him out of the mess.

But if this was to work, he'd need bruises or cuts to show the Hemicycle during the inquest. And he needed them to match up with the woman following him. Which meant that this was about to get unpleasant.

He clicked the pen that he kept in his breast pocket, deactivating the transmitter. It was top-end surveillance gear, the kind that even the DGSE didn't have access to. Philippe had given it to him on the off-chance that Zero was dumb enough to say something incriminating within his hearing. Though unfortunately the man had stuck to simple pettiness thus far.

The bug's feed was constantly streaming to a secure DGSE server, but covert training dictated that no record be kept of a sensitive action like this one. You never knew what 'hidden' information might come back to bite you in an inquest between two powerful political figures.

As casually as he could, he went through the Green-level checkpoint, into the section of the ship exclusive to high-ranking officers. Considering that beside Zero and his staff, the only other people with that clearance were Admiral White and her immediate underlings, this section was usually rather empty.

He took a few quick steps to gain a lead on his pursuer, and ducked inside the public washroom. It was small, with only three enclosed stalls and a sink station—but then again it was on a battleship and only designed to service a handful of officers.

Knowing that Zero's goon would follow him inside any second, he took a position behind the door and waited. Once she came in, a blow to the stomach should be enough to incite her without leaving a bruise. After that, he could weather a few blows—enough to get his blood on her knuckles. Then, he'd just flee like a victim and call for the Airsec troopers. The security cameras for this deck would corroborate his story.

Normally a subordinate's actions wouldn't be able to take down someone like Zero, and they certainly wouldn't be enough to have him criminally tried unless this goon flipped on him, but when combined with his unauthorized invasion of Africa, they would at the very least be enough to see him stripped of command.

If Minister Philippe played his cards right, he could probably even see Zero kicked back to the Outer Hemicycle, where he belonged.

The sound of boots paused outside the bathroom door, and after a moment it swung open.

To the woman's credit, she seemed to register his presence almost instantly. Something tipped her off, and she swiveled around to face him—but by that point his fist was already driving towards the flesh of her stomach. It collided heavily, and his hand almost hurt from the muscled rigidity of her abdomen, but the sudden punch still had its desired effect.

She grunted sharply and stumbled backwards, catching herself on the sink. Philippe stared down her mask in challenge, and he could almost swear that a red glow suddenly emitted from its dark eye-sockets.

"About fucking time," she growled, cracking her knuckles so loudly that they echoed like gunshots in the washroom.

Chastain mocked a kissing gesture, and assumed a French pugilist stance, keeping his guard deliberately low so that his face was exposed. If she had any hand-to-hand training, the opening was a mile wide.

But she didn't take it. Instead, she grinned darkly and swung low, towards his stomach. It was a damnably foolish move. All she'd succeed in doing would be breaking her fist on his elbows.

He moved his arm to intercept the heavy-handed blow, and screamed when it impacted. Instead of diffusing, the woman's fist shattered his elbow and continued through without even slowing. Ribs cracked when it finally found his target, and he collapsed to the floor in a choking heap.

"I have been waiting for you to do that for weeks now," she told him, a definite tone of annoyance in her voice as she crushed his windpipe with the heel of her tall leather boot. Crouching down, her hand extended and began rifling through his pockets. His cellphone came out, followed shortly by his bug pen. With a contemptuous air she snapped both of them in half with her bare hands and flushed the ends down the nearest toilet.

Her boot returned to its suffocating position as she touched the side of her head. "Sayoko, it's Dalque. Chastain finally made his move. Initiate a soft lockdown, and get one of our medic teams down here. His bug's finally down, so send Mao as well if you would."

Deactivating her radio, she looked down to leer at him in a way that brought an involuntary shudder to his spine.

"Don't look like that, Mr. Chastain. It's finally time for you to help save the world."

"Liberty, my good people. It is so often touted as some shining, inherent virtue, but at its most base level, what is 'Liberty'? What is its innate value? I shall tell you: it is a crutch. In a failing, weak, or tyrannical government, the freedom of the individual is the life preserver that keeps the average human potential from dipping below the bottom line at the hands of incompetent rulers forcing their will on the people. But it is also harmful. It is the veil that the most insidious among humanity use to mask the actions they take at the expense of others. Like any crutch, if used for longer than needed, the harm will begin to vastly outweigh the good.

After all, in a properly functioning government, simply acting in the best interests of the people, what use is 'Liberty'? If the government is not to be feared and distrusted, then the only use for 'Liberty' is to defy the wellbeing of your fellow man. To put your interests above theirs. To be selfish—"

Leila kept one ear on Price's speech as she once more scanned the cheering crowd with a wary eye. After Tsar Alexander's sudden declaration of outright support for the Ave a month ago, the Party's size had swelled exponentially.

As had the incidents.

Just as Price had promised, the Party's success had set off a cascade of escalating pushback, and the police were never of any help. Fire alarms pulled in Bern, attempted assault of Price in Marseille, a Molotov thrown at their vehicle in Prague, and an attempt to smuggle in a gun at their venue in Copenhagen. Needless to say, Leila and her Praetorians had been growing more vigilant with each narrowly-foiled incident.

And as this was their last speaking event in Rome, Leila knew that if anything was going to happen, now would be the time.

This was also, unfortunately, the largest crowd Price had ever spoken to. Though indoors, thousands were packed in standing-room-only conditions through the Roman Public Hall, waiting on the words of Leila's boss with bated breath.

The man himself stood on a tall stage at a podium, bringing the Union closer to salvation with every word that left his mouth. Leila tried to avoid hero worship, but it was exceedingly hard the more she listened to Price. A tight barrier of Praetorians—former members of Leila's Z-Company donned in black dress uniforms with leather-bound saps on their hips—separated the stage from the front rows of the crowd.

"Second row, far right end," intoned Oscar's voice in her earpiece. "Two men, with blonde hair."

At her right-hand's words, Leila's head snapped to the area just slowly enough that it was not obvious. Standing out from the mostly-Italian crowd, were two lanky men with fair hair and a vaguely Eastern European look to them. Also unlike those around them, they did not seem to be enjoying the rally. The taller was actively glaring, while the other was fiddling with something in his pocket.

She squinted, trying to see what he was toying with, but the distance was too far and the crowd too thick. "Oscar," she whispered, "tighten the cameras on the shorter one. What's he doing?"

Perhaps it was paranoia, but after several major and dozens of minor incidents, her hand was already casually resting on her holstered sidearm. She had half a mind to put an alert out to Claus' High-Threat-Response team waiting backstage with H&K MP19s—sourced by Price and his extensive, mysterious contacts of course—but she decided against it. The last thing they needed was a massacre because the Wild Geese mercs they'd hired as heavy-duty security got jumpy.

Oscar's voice said something, but the crowd cheered so loudly at the same time that his words were drowned out. "Repeat, Oscar. Say again."

There was a certain worrying edge to Oscar's tone. "He's definitely got something in his pocket. His coat keeps blocking my view. It's metal, but it's not a gun. I can't see it any better than that, though."

Leila frowned sharply. There was a warning bell ringing in her head, but she couldn't identify its source.

Thankfully, Price chose this moment to deliver the last line of his opening remarks, before stepping back behind the curtain so that he could drink some water and double-check his oration.

The moment her primary VIP was out of target range, Leila chose to be safe. "Pull those two outside and search them. Be quick and cautious."

"Understood."

Oscar relayed her order from the security center, and three of her men maintaining the cordon broke off. They approached the two suspicious individuals, maintaining the golden security balance of imposing but genial. Leila watched one of the Praetorians extend a hand towards the side exit, obviously attempting to politely escort them outside. The taller blonde shook his head, but the shorter one's eyes grew wild. Like a fox realizing that it's foot is caught in a snare.

The look in his eyes. She recognized the look. No.

She tried to intervene, but she couldn't be heard over the dull roar of the crowd. Her pistol once more found its place in her grip, but she had no shot. One of her men, Darby, placed a light hand on the shorter man's arm, in an ushering manner. The arm in his pocket.

It was his first, and last, mistake.

"LIBERTY OR DEATH!" was the last thing Leila heard before an eardrum-shattering detonation rocked her off her feet and rattled her skull. After several incoherent seconds, she groaned and sat up. Her ears were ringing badly, and a warm fluid stung her eyes. She was in the Foreign Legion long enough to recognize that it was blood. And she'd dealt with enough suicide bombers during the Bulgarian Insurrection to know that it probably wasn't hers.

Wiping it away, she squinted into the chaos that was the speaking hall. An enormous, charnel smear now filled the space that the five men, and the hundred-some bystanders packed in around them, had once occupied.

Two more of her men, who had been keeping up the nearby cordon, were also dismembered on the ground. A third private was missing his lower legs, and his panicked comrades were desperately trying to keep him from going into shock.

Looking up, the crowd wasn't much better. Wounded and healthy alike madly stampeded towards any exit—mercilessly trampling any that fell out of their panicked rhythm. Animalistic terror ruled as smoke and dust obscured what the half-extinguished and dangerously-sparking light fixtures tried and failed to illuminate.

Her hearing returned suddenly, and violently.

Screaming. So much screaming. The wounded screeching for help. The responders calling for aid. Everyone else screaming out of sheer primate instinct.

Individual words were impossible to make out. It all blended together into a demonic choir, the sound one would expect to hear if they pressed an ear to the entrance of Tartarus itself.

But Leila had not become a Captain of the Foreign Legion by letting shock and horror stun her. She could do nothing here. Her primary objective was to see to Price's safety, and she could do that.

Illuminated only by the chemically-luminescent emergency exit signs, she stumbled back into the Green Room behind the stage. Her finger rested on her Beretta's trigger guard as she entered—ready for anything.

"Leila," greeted Price in relief, even as Claus and his team instinctively trained their submachine guns on her. "What the hell just happened?"

She didn't break her stride, physically seizing the back of Price's coat and leading him towards the back door like a mother escorting a child. "Exfil C," she said, and Claus understood. With a few short orders, half his team went ahead to clear the way, while the other half covered their rear as they hurriedly moved out.

"Someone from the crowd slipped in a bomb vest," she said tersely, eyes swiveling in search of threats. Over her earpiece, she overhead Oscar getting their emergency vehicles into position. "A lot of people are dead, but they were here for you, Mr. Price. We're getting you back to the hotel. Keep your head down, and do exactly as I say, sir. There may be more of them."

Her boss nodded in understanding. This wasn't the first threat on his life, after all.

The hallways they moved through were barren and poorly-lit. Flashlights were forced to make up the difference—the sporadic lighting putting everyone on edge. A few turns later, they arrived at the service door for staff and VIPs, which exited into a narrow side-street between the main hall and its adjacent building.

Three black SUVs with tinted windows screeched to a halt mere feet from the door. The lead member of Claus' HTR team rushed out and opened the rear door of the middle vehicle. Leila, still holding the back of Price's coat, rushed towards the open entrance and bodily shoved her VIP inside—minimizing the time he was exposed to the open air.

It was that speed which saved his life as a distant crack preceded the terrible shriek of a sniper round whizzing by. Leila cried in pain as it struck her shoulder instead. Even though it failed to penetrate the high-grade kevlar lining of her uniform, she still felt it fracture bone.

Claus, in turn, saved her life as he placed a hand to her back and forced her inside as he barreled in. He slammed the door shut and yelled, "DRIVE!" to the Praetorian at the wheel. Another crack sounded outside, and a sniper round impacted against the bulletproof windscreen.

Burnt rubber and squealing tires overwhelmed Leila's battered senses as the three vehicles roared out of the side-street.

It was a good day, Lelouch decided as he sliced the cap off a bottle of Dom Pérignon. If nothing else, he'd say this for the French: they knew their champagne. Pressing his thumb, he slowly worked the cork out.

With a loud pop, it flew from the bottle and across his private quarters. In a display of reflex that could only be brought about by Synaptic Boosters, Sayoko's hand snapped out and plucked it form the air before it hit Kallen.

The room's occupants blinked at the surreal nonchalance of the scene, before laughing in unison.

Doling the golden wine out into seven crystal glasses, Lelouch distributed them to the room's occupants—himself, C.C, Kallen, Sayoko, Cornelia, Euphemia, and Jeremiah.

Glass in hand, he took a moment to gaze out the one-way reinforced glass of his chamber's window, to the conquered city below and the precious canal attached to it. For a brief second, the enormity of his situation washed over him like a wave. A city. An army. A nation. An empire. Their fates were all tied to his. The greatest gamble in the history of humankind.

Six weeks total it had taken to secure the Mediterranean coast. General Fritz would be ferrying the 1st Union Army over the Strait into Tangiers at this very moment.

When Operation Notos commenced, two divisions stationed in each of their beachhead cities would advance southwards to the 27th North Parallel, while Fritz would bring the 1st Army, consisting of six division in total, down from Tangiers and eastwards like a sledgehammer. If successful, they would succeed in enveloping the FPA garrison forces contained between them.

They'd be capturing the entire Green Belt, the nearly 800 million acres of resource-rich territory that made up Northern Africa. Farmlands, mines, timber forests, and factory towns. Enough to start building the army he'd need to fight Britannia.

The Union Army was nothing to scoff at, to be sure, but he'd been forced to cut a great many corners to see them constructed in time to be of use. None that would impact their fighting ability, but ones that a clever opponent like Schneizel would be able to exploit if given time.

Which of course was why he needed to—

"For God's sake Lelouch," sighed an exasperated C.C as she placed a hand on his shoulder and spun him around to face his compatriots. "You've won today. You even poured champagne. Can you place a hold on the brooding and plotting for just tonight? I can't speak for Jerry, but I know that the rest of us are planning to ride you raw once we're done here, and we don't want you scowling when we do so."

Smiling, Lelouch took her hand in his own. "I could wear my Zero mask, if that would help."

"Don't tempt me," muttered Sayoko. The rest of the girls turned an eyebrow on her, and she flushed defensively. "What? I don't know if he realizes, but he dials up his dominating side about five times when he puts that mask on."

Kallen, Cornelia, and Euphemia seemed to consider that for a moment, their faces turning intrigued.

"You ladies are going to be the death of me," Lelouch sighed, before pausing and reconsidering his words. "Well, you know what I mean."

He raised his glass of champagne in a toast, and the rest soon joined him.

"To the completion of another step in world domination."

Luogotenente Lucci Romano was taking a smoke break when it happened. He'd been leaning on a rail overlooking the Mediterranean, on his stationed Union Navy Supply Base on the island of Malta, and as he gazed into the sea he spotted a small dark line slowly rising up from the water.

He squinted, hoping that it was a fin whale. Ricco claimed to have seen an entire group breach a week ago, and he wanted to see one himself before next month, when he'd be rotated off the island.

A loud whoosh overhead drew his gaze to an incoming Airborne supply cutter, with two escort VTOLs. The fat-bellied aircraft swooped down to the Sakuradite stockyard, near where an engineer crew was laying the groundwork for a laser missile-defense-turret. Though this base had been in place for over a year now, its position safely cocooned in the Mediterranean meant that High Command had prioritized functionality at the expense of noncritical elements. They were just now getting a few redundant upgrades.

Ignoring the routine aircraft, Lucci went back to whale watching. The distant whale had definitely broke surface now, but there was something off about it. Its shape was too... straight.

Fumbling in the side-pockets of his pants, he withdrew a small pair of naval binoculars and focused in on the whale.

He recognized it just in time to see twelve missile hatches snap open on the submarine's top, before their contents streaked upwards like silent specters. Stun gripped him as he dumbly followed their trajectory, all the way until the point where they hit the Sakuradite stores behind him and set half the island ablaze.

"How do you feel about working under Fritz?"

Gerd shrugged, examining his cards. They'd been on the EUNS Spearhead for three hours now. Only about an hour of that was supposed to be transportation, but with the entire 1st Army coming across the Strait with their tanks, KMFs, and equipment, there had been a lot of boarding, oversight, and inspection that slowed the process down.

They'd just gotten underway about twenty minutes ago, and would be arriving in Tangiers within the hour.

"Fold," he said in disgust, flopping his cards on the small, round table he and his fireteam had appropriated in their platoon's troop quarters. "I've got no gripes with the good general. Zero's supposed to be some strategic mastermind, and he hand-picked the guy. Can't be that bad."

Einhard raised his thick brow, though whether it was at his card or Gerd's statement he couldn't tell.

"Raise ten. You sure it was Zero's appointment though? I heard that it was Smilas who got him the job. Something about them going to the Paris Academy together. You know how those old-school, blue-blood types are. It's all favor and connections with them."

That made Cyrille wave dismissively. "Call. I can't speak for Fritz, but Smilas is on the up-and-up. Man enlisted as a private, and got himself a Legion of Honor medal. Legitimate war hero, him. Singlehandedly rescued a dozen wounded civilians in the aftermath of a shelling during the Greek Secession—with a broken leg at that. He only went to the Paris Academy afterwards."

"Why don't you suck him off a little more, Ciri?" jabbed Heine, before turning. "You gonna call, Armel, or is a twenty buy-in too rich for your French sensibilities?"

"I think I—"

A deafening warning klaxon sounded that echoed through the whole deck. The intercom blared with a rushed voice. "ENEMY SUBMERSIBLE DETECTED! ALL HANDS, BRACE FOR—"

The voice was cut off as a series of enormous and staccato shudders rocked the entire ship. Gravity seemed to tilt sideways, and Gerd found himself falling out of his chair and sliding against the far wall. He realized after a moment that the ship was already rocking to one side.

Less than a second later, the lights went out, leaving them completely blind in the ship's steel innards. The sinking ship's innards.

"Chemlights!" cried someone on the far end of the large troop quarters. "For God's sake, chemlights!"

There was a great deal of frightened scrambling as fifty-some soldiers attempted to locate their stowed packs in the pitch black. Time seemed to stretch on forever in that endless black, the muffled sounds of similar panic coming through the bulkhead walls from other sections of the ship.

Eventually, there was a crackling sound, followed by a sharp green glow a few feet away. Cyrille had found his pack, it seemed. With the unnatural lighting, he began sliding packs out from the roof rack, and soon their entire five-man fireteam had glowing chemsticks. With their illumination, soon their entire platoon had their own sticks cracked on. Gerd examined the faces in the room, frowning.

"Where the hell's Lieutenant Dufresne?"

The men looked back and forth for a moment, before a young Private spoke up. Simmel, his name was. "I think the Colonel had pulled him in for some meeting, Sarge. Staff Sergeant Gigot too."

"Peachy," muttered Gerd. "Just fucking peachy."

He looked at the frightened men in the glowing green light, and realized that this was not the time for that kind of attitude. These men needed a way out of here.

"Life jackets. Everybody grab life jackets. More than one if there are spares, in case we run into anyone on the way out."

As a Sergeant, he didn't have the authority to command his platoon, but they just seemed grateful for someone to be giving orders. They all made for the large cabinet labeled 'Flotation Harnesses' and began stripping it bare with the feverish enthusiasm of holiday shoppers.

Einhard tossed him a vest, and he strapped it on numbly, hoping that his terror didn't show on his face. He'd read accounts about being on a sinking battleship, and they weren't pretty.

He closed his eyes, mentally trying to recall the route from their quarters to the top deck. That was when he heard it. A faint, repeating siren. Seven short blares, then a long one. They had learned during Basic that it was the universal signal to abandon a ship.

It was as good a sign as he was going to get.

"Let's get the fuck out of here," he called, waving his chemlight to grab attention. He didn't remember the route, but he knew that they were only two decks down, and he remembered the door they came in through.

Making his way to the thick bulkhead, he gripped the wheel and spun it. For such a large mechanism, it was surprisingly easy to operate. Three spins, and the door swung open on oiled hinges.

Allowing ankle-high water to pour into the troop compartment.

Men loosed shouts of alarm as the frigid water washed past them, but Gerd waved them forward and stepped into the hallway. From here, he could hear the shouting from the rest of the ship more clearly. Calls to activate bilge pumps. Calls to damn the bilge pumps, and abandon the sinking ship. Calls to rescue vital equipment, and calls to ignore it.

But Gerd already knew what he need to do, and the was keep his Platoon alive. "Come on, this way!"

Looking left and right, he spotted a metal staircase leading upwards. Wherever it went, it was closer to the deck than here. And considering the heavy smoke was wafting from the opposite direction, they needed to get out before they started to suffocate.

Ensuring that the men were following, he made for the staircase. It was slick with the water pouring down it, but the handrail meant that he could keep his grip.

Step by step, he rose up higher up the transport ship. The smoke was beginning to get so thick that it was obscuring his vision, but half-way up, he saw what looked like a glimmer of sunlight.

Then, a single, piercing shout echoed through the metal corridors.

"THE FIRE'S SPREAD TO THE MAGAZINES! THEY'RE GONNA BLO—"

Gene watched, horrified, as another troop ship detonated with thousands of soldiers still aboard. Only a single division had made it to the sheltered harbor of Tangiers, safe from the Black Sub torpedoes.

Damn Ashford.

Damn Ashford! His underwater sonar network was supposed to keep those subs out of the Strait! So why was he watching five divisions being massacred at sea?

"Sir," said his aide, William, nervously. Gene turned slowly, his face causing poor William to blanch. "Sir, we've just received word. It's more than the troop ships. Black Subs just popped up around the entire Mediterranean, targeting our Navy supply depots. Alboran, Ibiza, Palma, Sardinia, Pantelleria, Malta, and Crete. All of them were hit, and are out of action."

Seething, Gene collapsing into his chair, before it hit him. That didn't make sense. Sinking five divisions did, but attacking the Union Navy depots? That wouldn't hamper the Navy. They had enough staying power to piggyback off the continental bases of Spain, France, Italy, and Greece.

No, those depots weren't even made for the Navy. Primarily, they were resupply bases for...

The Airborne. Which was currently on the opposite of Africa, and now unable to refuel. And the Black Subs had just cut off both reinforcement and retreat across the Strait for Tangiers. Which meant only one thing.

An attack.

[End Chapter]

Welcome back, folks. Neolyph here, with more Darwin. As promised several chapters ago, Lelouch is finally facing proper resistance in Africa. As is Reid in Europe. I hope that the constant explosions this chapter didn't get repetitive. They seemed that way in the first draft, so I had to rewrite it a few times. If it was still that way, you have my apologies in advance.

Now, for the customary review responses.

Nerf585: Yes, eventually. It might not even happen this act.

AshKetchum. : Well, I'm flattered to hear that. I hope that you'll enjoy the coming chapters.

Kaiya Azure: Lady Liberty is a separate individual, and working for neither Lelouch or Schneizel—though Schneizel is aware of her and has actually given her some funding through a Chinese intermediary.

Generation Zero: As you can see, things are heating up in both Europe and Africa. While Philippe's mistake is severe, it's not as stupid as it seems. From his perspective, Zero is just a wayward general. The idea of the man having formed a secret fifth column loyal to him within the military that's supposed to answer to the Hemicycle, it's unlikely for pretty much anyone but Lelouch.

GJMEGA: You're right, that was poorly written. It was an oversight between edits. I originally intended that to mean that Oscar would understand her reasoning, but not necessarily agree with it.

some fucking random guy: Consider the pace picked up, my friend.

Erit of Eastcris: Most of my quotes are just ones that I come across randomly and feel would fit certain parts of the story. Others are just pseudo-philosophic ramblings that only make sense in the Darwin-verse.

TigerJacob: Well, without Geass and immortality to smooth over the cogs of government, most monarchies are basically a dice roll for the competence of a ruler. But I get your point. I mean, Lelouch is out to create a genuine utopia, and he's got a solid plan to see it done. Rooting for him is what I aim for the audience to do, despite his faults.