Chapter Text
The atmosphere on the plane was tense. Why wouldn't it be? This isn't a position with a positive start.
My older half-brother, Clovis, was dead. His murderer a masked assassin. The circumstances of his death a mystery. My fingers are steepled together, the black gloves a contrast to the white the rest of the family wears. My expression is neutral as always. To some, it would be considered a stoic mask, but in truth, I am very deep in thought. Across from me is my older half-sister, four years my senior and one of the few who does more than tolerate me. She knows my expressions well, having been the main one to look after me after Mother passed, and especially after Persia.
"You look troubled, Sub-Viceroy," Cornelia stated. Yes…I will have to start getting used to the title and addressing her by her given one as well.
"I'm surprised you are not," I state as my eyes dart up to look at hers. Indigo, in contrast to the rich blue ones I have.
Cornelia let out a humorless huff. "This isn't the first time there has been a mysterious death in the family. It is a natural hazard, with being both royalty and a governing official."
"Yes, but this time it's…much more peculiar…" I slowly hum out, keeping the same steady tone and expression. I turn my head to look out the plane's window—still clouds, even as the afternoon is turning to dusk. My eyes narrow a bit.
"Clovis was never the sharpest one among us, but this? It reeks of something I can't quite put my finger on…" I slowly state, thinking out loud. People are too eager to place the blame on a single man. Even if this man, this 'Zero', is telling the truth, he must have had help from inside, or so I believe.
"One does not just…walk past military checkpoints and enter a command G-1 without resistance."
Cornelia's eyes narrow a small bit. I know she knows I am right. Even from the reports we have received, this entire incident is…odd. Strange.
"You make a fair point," she states. Curt, as usual. Even if she doesn't show it, I know the death of Clovis has affected her. After all, family is still family, no matter how they were in life. And on that same thought, I look back to Cornelia.
"Are you sure it was wise to send Euphemia early?" I ask my older sister. She does tense up a small bit, but not overly so. She still dotes on Euphie, which is why I found it surprising that she was the one to suggest this.
"Euphemia is a growing young woman. She needs at least a taste of independence from her older sister."
I'll take this answer. It's not entirely untrue, but I was still caught off guard by this instead of having her wait for our next plane from the Middle East, or even allowing Euphie to be one of her Sub-Viceroy's in the still-unstable region. But it is not my place to openly question the decision. Cornelia wanted her, and both Father and Schneizel approved her decision. A 5th Prince can only protest and doubt so much.
"Yes, I suppose she does," I hum out in response, that same serious expression on my face—the one I always have on if I can help it.
I tap my right hand's fingers against my left's. Still slightly stiff. My eyes narrowed somewhat, and immediately, Cornelia could tell what I was thinking.
"Don't force yourself. Your nerves still need to adjust to the new arm," she says in that commanding tone I always hear from her, even if I know she is meaning it in a comforting way.
"We are to face this 'Zero' on the battlefield eventually. I can't let something as simple as this impede my ability to pilot."
Cornelia's eyes narrowed again as she sat up straighter in her chair. She's about to tell me something that I might find upsetting.
"Yes, which is why you will be confined to the G-1 as one of my tactical advisors whenever on mission until I see that your body is finally accepting the new arm with no complications."
I grit my teeth, my mouth closed, not to show the expression. She knows I can still pilot my Gloucester just fine for the most part. Damn her protectiveness, treating me like some lame cub. But I don't wish to start an argument right now; the atmosphere is already tense, so I school my expression and let out a deep breath from my nose as I look at her, sitting up straighter.
"As you wish, Viceroy," I answer with a slightly short tone, but offer no resistance against her. She is the Viceroy now, and my commanding officer above that. I know she knows I'm upset, yet despite already conforming to her wishes, she continues in a quieter tone.
"Charles," she starts. Of course, she uses my full name to ensure I know she's serious, "You know why I'm doing this. Your injury from Persia was barely six months ago. I know you wish to prove yourself and your position, but I need you not to be such a reckless fool. You are the farthest thing from a weakling and far more capable of thinking tactically than most other men I know. That is one of the main reasons I have brought you along while I am positioned on this damned island. Do you understand why I am making this decision?"
I slowly took another deep breath, glancing away for a moment. I feel like a child again, being scolded by Мама for misbehaving for a few moments. The worst part is that she's right. That ambush was my fault. I've known it since I woke up and couldn't feel my ar-.
No. I can't think back to that moment now, not in front of Cornelia, and certainly not when we're close to landing in Area 11.
I look back at Cornelia, my expression softening, at least for this moment.
"Of course, Viceroy," I answer in a similarly softer tone. She quickly thins her lips a small bit.
"...Cornelia."
That made her expression less stony.
Yes. Of course. She was talking to me like a sibling that time, not as her subordinate. How…idiotic of me to think otherwise.
The rest of the plane ride is quiet, at least on the craft section with Cornelia and me. There is no doubt that conversation is taking place between the onboard officers, Guilford, and Dalton. Discussion about current events, Clovis' upcoming funeral, strategy, and the recently conquered Middle East. Oh, how I wish so badly to have been there during the final confrontation and see the end of the conquest that stole a part of me. But no, I was still stuck in physical therapy for the new arm. Hell, I'm technically not even done with the treatment, but Cornelia insisted that I come with her. The physiotherapists I have been working with will arrive by the end of the week if nothing delays their arrival. My arms are currently on the seat's armrest. I begin to tap the right one gently. Slowly, but steadily.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
There's still a slight delay, and I can feel it just as much as I can see it.
Неприемлемый.
Cornelia is right. Even if I can hold my Gloucester's control handles as well as before, moments of movement can mean life and death.
At the very least, the arm is well-designed. Calling it artisan work wouldn't be far from the truth. It has never snagged on my sleeves or gloves, its range of motion surpasses what the regular human body is capable of, and it comes with a flurry of features that will aid me in combat when my body finally accepts it. That's the most annoying part.
My mind begins to wander as my fingers slowly tap the armrest.
What was Clovis doing in Shinjuku? Sure, the reports said poison gas was stolen by terrorists, but we haven't used poison gas as a weapon for years, and never in Area 11. Was it being stored there? Unlikely, as it would be a target for terrorists if word got out about it, as we have witnessed. Manufactured? That would cause a public outcry if it came out that the 3rd Prince was overseeing the production of chemical weapons in a populated area.
The fact that I am questioning the official story so far, even doubting my dead half-brother, is concerning me. Under the most minute scrutiny, this entire incident reeks of false narratives. Someone is trying to hide something, or shift blame, something.
Clovis?
Боже упаси.
That oaf of a yes-man Bartley? Gottwald? The two seemed distraught over Clovis' murder…But looks can be very deceiving. Gottwald himself has been caught in some major trouble following this 'Orange' business. I will need to form my own investigation. For all I know, it could be some pencil-pushing bureaucrat trying to save his pathetic skin.
I narrow my eyes as I continue to think.
Regardless, Clovis' death, whether Zero did do it or is merely claiming credit for it, is an insult to the family and our rule. It will not go unpunis-
My train of thought is broken when I feel a sudden bump and hear the skidding of oversized tires. I glance towards the window. Dusk, broken up by the lights of the settlement around us.
We have arrived.
I can hear movement around us moments after the plane hits the tarmac. Cornelia rises from her seat, regal yet firm as always. I wordlessly rise after her as she begins to march towards the front of the craft, the pilots and crew already standing from their positions to salute with their hands over their chests as we pass. The stairs ramp to exit the plane has already lowered, making the walk from the aircraft to the ground seamless. Cornelia at the front, I behind her, Guilford behind me, Dalton, and the rest of the officer corps we brought. Cornelia descends the stairs, and I move to follow after her.
The plane's searchlights are on, illuminating the path before us. A small welcoming committee has come to meet us, consisting of Area 11's military officials and a few of the officials and bureaucrats we are inheriting from Clovis. I doubt I'll see many of these faces for much longer, whether by Cornelia's actions or my own.
What I am not surprised to see in the slightest is Euphemia. Her hair flowed as usual, and in that pink and white gown. However, the same cannot be said for her. Even from here, I can see the hints of a surprised expression when I step onto the stairs. Her expression is shared with those officials lined up to greet us.
It appears that my presence is a surprise. Curious.
The red overcoat I have draped over my shoulders in place of a more traditional royal cloak flows and moves as I walk, my boots creating a soft clanging against the metal stairs. I can feel eyes on me as I descend the stairs. Maybe it's my more subdued way of dress? They're more used to the frills and pomp of Clovis, which look extravagant compared to the desaturated military officer-like garment I'm wearing. Or it's more likely that they are surprised to see me walking around so soon, off a plane no less, when I should be in the Homeland at some doctor's office. I suppose the scar running down my right cheek is not helping.
No matter. My expression is the same serious one, my hands placed behind my back, and the same stern expression in my eyes. I finally stop behind Cornelia, on her right side, closest to one of those men I assume to be an official or bureaucrat. The walrus mustache on him is…certainly a choice. Not egregious. Perhaps it would look good on his person if he were more of a statesman.
The soft click of heels alerts me to the approaching Euphemia. I haven't seen her in months, maybe a year. I glance over to her and subtly nod. She glances over to me for a second and nods, with a small, soft smile. She's probably relieved to see me doing well, in her eyes at least.
The sound of Cornelia's voice takes her attention.
"I heard what you did, Euphemia. You shouldn't be so reckless."
Euphemia turned her head to Cornelia, looking down somewhat.
"I know, sister, forgive me, bu-"
"You will address me as Viceroy here, Sub-Viceroy Euphemia. Since we are sisters, we need to follow a stricter protocol."
"Yes, I understand."
Ah. It appears she's already gotten herself into some mischief. It must have happened recently if I am hearing of it now. Well, as Cornelia told me, she can handle herself.
I hope.
A slightly amused hum exits Cornelia's mouth before she turns to the official to my right.
"Now, give me your report."
He salutes before he begins.
"Yes, My Lady. Our first order of business is a welcome party we have arranged for your arrival-"
He is cut off by Cornelia, pointing her gun-saber at him. The weapon is mere inches from my face, but I am not alarmed. I mean my eyes at the official and narrow them.
He gasps, caught off guard by the action. Euphemia also gasps quietly, but is less caught off guard than the official.
"Sloppy. Senile. Corrupt."
My sentiments exactly, сестра.
"Where is Zero!?" she demands, "I want the enemy of the Empire caught! Get Zero!"
' Get Zero!'
' Get Zero!'
' Get Zero!'
Those two words are now my prerogative. The main task I have on this cursed island that has taken three of my siblings now. My eyes narrow further as I remember the phrase, a mantra to my goal:
Get Zero.
Get Zero.
GET ZERO.