Nightfall, clamor, a city aflame.
Gun smoke, corpses, rioters.
Under illumination flares, scarred streets. Killing fills the fields, saving lives. Heroes move forward in silent resolve.
...
[Code Geass]
Empire, Britannia of Europe.
St. Petersburg, Catherine Palace.
In the Amber Room study, faint incense lingered in the air as Vela reclined against a salon chair, taking a short rest.
On the somewhat cluttered desk were stacks of books, official letters, and folders piled together. Under the glow of wall lamps, they formed wave-like illusory reflections with the surrounding luxurious ornaments. The leaping firelight in the fireplace, along with the reflections from seals, ink bottles, holographic screens, and the brooch at Vela's collar, stood out vividly in the slightly dim room.
A birdcage-style afternoon tea stand was placed on the side table. The black tea still steamed.
Outside the arched window, rain and snow fell thickly, like a natural meditation melody.
"Cultivating heroes?" Vela rested her left elbow on the armrest, her cheek supported by her palm, gazing serenely out the window as if deep in thought.
Only she could see the scene before her—the combat bearing of a biohazard counterterrorism hero from the BSAA organization of "Resident Evil": Chris Redfield.
His fighting form in the quagmire of urban warfare known as Fallujah:
Cramped, coarse, shattered in every direction, gloomy and stifling hot streets.
Huff!
When a T-Tyrant burst through the wall and swung down a rough rebar-and-concrete sledgehammer, the black-armored hero advanced instead of retreating, reaching out with one hand to seize the incoming weapon wielded by the muscle-knotted bio-monster.
Clang! The shockwave blasted outward, clearing surrounding dust before surging back in.
Ignoring the cracked tiles beneath his feet, Chris crushed the neck of a red-eyed terrorist he had restrained with his left hand—crack—while twisting his body and yanking the rebar-concrete hammer. His freed left hand shot straight toward the handle gripped by the Tyrant.
"Hah." With a low shout, he forcibly wrenched the weapon barehanded.
"Roar." Thick finger bones bent directly. Before the Tyrant's bulging muscles could regenerate and mutate, bang!sizzle! The rebar-concrete hammer was swung from bottom to top with even greater force, lifting its entire body.
The nearly 2.7-meter-tall deformed body arched backward, feet leaving the ground. Its breastbone caved in, blood spraying everywhere—an overwhelming visual impact.
Taking advantage of its fall, Chris brought the hammer down again, smashing squarely into the Tyrant's already shattered lower jaw and head. The force was so immense that the concrete hammerhead cracked apart. The Tyrant's skull burst, flesh and blood exploding, white and red splattering across the ground.
He immediately twisted on his toes. As the exoskeleton's hydraulic cylinders and rotary joints hummed, his right arm—now bearing thicker armor—snatched up the "slimmed-down" yet even bloodier rebar-concrete hammer, and he swung it backhanded.
Clang!
Flesh carrying shattered scales flew apart.
Revealed was a new-type Hunter, its entire body covered in brown-green keratinous scales.
And it was already dead.
Its hide was split, tendons severed, bones broken as it spun through the air and crashed away, leaving behind a long trail of dark blood blossoms.
At that moment.
Another attack arrived.
Swoosh! A long tongue pierced through the smoke like a crossbow bolt, shooting straight toward Chris' helmet visor.
But the biohazard counterterrorism hero reacted faster.
He raised his arm. The sharp tongue drilled into the exoskeleton shoulder armor component, producing a teeth-grinding scraping sound.
It was a Licker. Without needing to look, Chris already had his response. His raised left arm swung, wrapping the tongue like coiling a rope. He yanked hard—clatter clatter—pulling a muscle-exposed, skinless-frog-like Licker out of the narrow alley. His right hand released the hammer handle, clenched into a fist, and struck, smashing the Licker head and body straight into the wall.
Crash. Debris and bone fragments fell.
Chris pulled his fist back. In the instant he instinctively swept his surroundings, he drew the [Crusher] shotgun from his hip holster—its magazine already emptied—click, replaced the magazine, chambered a round.
Everything happened in an instant.
Before the stunned eyes of coalition soldiers and rescued refugees, Chris resolved all enemy units in this street with precision, efficiency, power, and silence.
"Escort the refugees out. I've cleared the lurkers. Watch for asymptomatic viral infections. Remember—to double-tap." He turned his head as he spoke. Beneath the dust- and blood-stained helmet visor was a scanner component flickering with crimson light.
With that, he stepped forward, continuing deeper into the fortress-like urban area.
Behind him rose surging muzzle flashes and the sound of execution shots.
...
This was nighttime alley combat footage recorded by a duty camera.
After multi-angle editing, compositing, and high-definition enhancement.
With a bit more cutting, it would undoubtedly become a promotional clip that perfectly embodied individual heroism.
"Heroes? The 11 Area Honorary Corps doesn't really count. At most, they're a model used to divide and dismantle the resistance forces of Area 11, a promotion channel for those willing to climb upward. Suzaku Kururugi, Akito Hyuga, and Sekai Kamiki... they might qualify instead." A silent self-question and self-answer. After finishing the so-called "superhero movie from beyond the sky," Vela lifted the steaming black tea, took a light sip, and cast her gaze toward the holographic screen.
"They will soon welcome their final examination."
—a.t.b (Imperial Calendar) 2018/02/07/15:48—
[Black Rebellion - Battlefield Situation Report]
[Location: Asia-Pacific · Area 11]
[Since the Shinjuku Incident in the second quarter of Imperial Calendar 2017, the resistance armed force known as the Black Knights, established by the mysterious masked man ZERO, has become a grave internal threat to the Holy Britannian Empire. After a brief period of dormancy, they have incited uprisings across the cities, prefectures, and counties of Area 11, escalating without restraint. The Area 11 Governor-General's Office has failed repeatedly in suppression efforts, resulting in military losses and national humiliation....]
Without question, Cornelia had been punished for her inability to suppress the local situation.
This empire-wide, all-province and all-governorate notice used far harsher wording from the Imperial Capital of Pendragon, clearly signaling a loss of patience.
In fact, the annual evaluation should have been released as usual in early January of Imperial Calendar 2018.
However, Cornelia's maternal family and supporters exerted themselves, and Vela along with the royal "good old man" Odysseus also spoke up in her defense. Based on this, the cabinet took into account the enormous mess left behind by the former Area 11 Governor-General, Clovis, and granted a one-month extension.
Unfortunately, by February, Cornelia still had no major achievements to show.
She had eliminated quite a few small fry, but the masked man ZERO was slippery as an eel.
Every time Cornelia thought she had severed ZERO's wings, the other side could always pull out new fanatics from obscure corners, with organization growing ever tighter. She was practically acting as a whetstone for the Black Knights.
By contrast, Vela's European Britannia could not be said to have everything go smoothly, but fortune had indeed favored her.
Militarily, she swept across Eastern Europe, easily taking Constantinople, expanding territory along the Baltic Sea, capturing Minsk, watering horses at the Dnieper River, and encircling Kiev. Economically, she attracted investment and reorganized industry, using technological iteration to upgrade the industrial sectors of St. Petersburg, Moscow, the Urals, and Novosibirsk. Socially, she focused on comprehensive governance and stability, greatly reducing wartime casualties and disability rates through cyberware technology, recalling wounded and disabled veterans, providing free prosthetics, promoting military-to-civilian transition, and dissolving social resentment accumulated by prolonged war....
By virtue of this, she won the annual assessment's No.1.
Everything fears comparison. In the struggle for the throne, Cornelia's decline had already begun to show.
Area 11 was a pit. Without preparation against Geass of "absolute obedience," whoever stepped into it would be covered in mud.
As for Vela, she actually wanted to step in, but domestic and international circumstances did not allow it.
One must know that the faction centered on Vela, led by the Hohenzollern family, was already large enough. To also occupy Area 11, the richest in Sakuradite deposits, would provoke widespread outrage. The old emperor had not yet kicked the bucket, and Vela had not yet ascended the throne.
Others might not know, but how could she not be aware? Charles that old bastard and Marianne's spiritual form were both watching their rebellious good-for-nothing son playing dress-up games at Ashford Academy in the Tokyo Settlement.
Besides, she had always presented herself as a hawk. Her words matched her actions. Wherever she went, war erupted.
Considering the attitude of the ancient eastern nation, unless absolutely necessary, she did not want to trigger tension in the Asia-Pacific situation.
But that was the past. Now, the excuse for intervention had been delivered.
Vela's fingertip slid across the desktop touch panel.
Beep beep.
—Mail—
[Sender: Cornelia Britannia]
[Dear Vela: Sorry to let you see me in such a sorry state. Come to think of it, in the latter half of last year, you were busy capturing Kiev and stabilizing the occupied territories, while I was busy suppressing rebellions. We haven't contacted each other for quite some time... How is Euphemia doing? With the war in this state, I don't even know how to explain it to her.]
[Thank you for helping me keep her tied up in Siberia. Otherwise, with her staying in the chaotic Area 11, I really wouldn't be at ease.]
[With Euphy's sensitive and trusting nature, she would surely cause trouble. This worries me greatly. Fortunately, with you around. I heard you assigned her a traveling field study assessment? Haha, that's a good thing. Please assign more if possible.]
[...]
[Once again, thank you for your help in January. Sigh, let's keep the small talk short. Heh, this really isn't like my style, is it?]
[I need support, Vela. The honorary Britannians in Area 11, the pureblood faction, the imperial military, even the Area 18 units I transferred in are all untrustworthy. Even saying this out loud is embarrassing, but my personal guard was actually infiltrated?!]
[If not for the tactical and technical exchange group you sent, I might really have been decapitated by ZERO (that guy keeps learning and improving. I estimate his age shouldn't be very old).]
[Afterward, I investigated the movements and background of the traitorous guards, and found nothing. His betrayal had no basis. I always feel something is off, as if ZERO possesses an ability to make people die for him. To be honest, this feeling has no factual evidence, but my intuition tells me there must be something strange...]
[That is all. I request that you repatriate part of the reliable veteran soldiers of the Eleven Special Task Force. I believe that after your differentiated treatment and divide-and-dismantle policies, they have already become loyal imperial citizens.]
[Your sister, Cornelia]
After reading the email, Vela seemed to see a tired, dark-circled, purple-haired military beauty writing it, hesitation on her face.
It was clear that even someone as strong as Cornelia felt worn down, especially after being deeply struck by the betrayal of trusted subordinates.
Vela placed the teacup back in its original position, tapped the touch panel, summoned the holographic keyboard, and replied.
[Okay.]
She then looked at the already printed "Area 11 1st and 2nd Joint Corps Repatriation Order" on the desk.
Picking up her fountain pen, she signed her name in complex and ornate cursive. Then she took out a gilded seal—snap—and stamped her personal imprint. The order took effect immediately.
"Someone, come in."