[This is the Empire's Foreign Intelligence Bureau, Alsace-Lorraine branch. Orders received: suspend intelligence gathering, suspend sabotage operations, suspend contact with subverted personnel. Enter deep-cover state.]
[All Hail Britannia.]
...
Near the countryside Weisswolf Castle, in the small city of Weisswolf.
The tidy streets, sparse traffic, and modest pedestrian avenues led to an apartment with a small yard. Its basement, from half-concealed to tightly sealed, buzzed faintly with electronics, punctuated by the beeps and clicks of active terminals.
"Chief, do we continue the sabotage plan?"
"Pull our men back."
Though puzzled, the chief kept to the discipline of an intelligence operative: don't ask what you shouldn't, just complete the mission. He gave the direct order: "Cease infiltration and sabotage against W-ZERO's Weisswolf Base immediately."
"Find a way to reach 'Parlu 11.' As quickly as possible. Tell him: the inside-out sabotage mission is canceled. He is to continue deep cover."
"Understood."
The agent left swiftly.
From his pocket, he drew out the paper roster of subverted personnel. At the top was the name of 'Parlu 11.'
Frankly, he didn't know why the codename "Parlu" was chosen, or what it referenced. All he knew was that it came from above.
But he had seen the man's file: an Area 11 refugee living in Europe, once a junior military attaché at the Japanese Embassy in Paris before the nation's fall in 2010. No relatives in Europe. By 2017, 29 years old, married four years, with a newborn second child. His wife unemployed. Deep in debt to Paris's underground loan sharks.
Every inch of him was a weak point. Otherwise, he would never have been turned.
Lately, though, in their regular contacts, he had grown increasingly eager…
Betrayal? A trap? Possible, but unlikely—unless he was willing to abandon his gentle wife, his little daughter, and his newborn son.
More likely, it was because Princess Vela's "Area 11 Expeditionary Corps" policy, and the public decorations at Königsberg's victory parade, had sparked new hope in him.
Pondering, the agent soon found himself at the apartment entrance.
Donning a stylish E.U. gentleman's hat, carrying a few essential tools, he brushed off his coat and stepped out, heading for the busier shopping district.
He needed to buy daily goods and food—and while there, make contact with 'Parlu 11.'
The timing was set: after simulator training, between dinner and night drills, soldiers were permitted brief calls home at public phone booths. There, disguised as a relative, he would use a swapped phone card and relay the code: mission canceled, stay embedded.
Passing a hotel flying the E.U. flag, the agent squinted.
Hmph. Foolish E.U. Let's see how many years you can keep laughing. Victory will belong to Britannia! Glory to Princess Vela!
...
Weisswolf Base.
Mess Hall.
"So, Ryo Sayama, Ayano Kosaka, and Yukiya Naruse are out already? Not shot, not expelled. Commander Malcal really is treating us equally—maybe even favoring us."
"Give me a break. Don't kid yourself. Look around—the whole base is on alert. We're about to march into battle. That 'sweet date before the stick' treatment won't last. Still, I admit Commander Malcal is far better than those E.U. bastards. I'd follow her orders any day."
"Right. Either way, we're dead. But if we die killing Britannian pigs, and our families—my parents, my brother, my sister—get citizenship and leave the ghettos, it's worth it. If I take down a Knight and get a posthumous medal? Even better…"
"What if we end up against Britannia's Area 11 Expeditionary Corps? Word from Warsaw says those soul-sellers slaughter us without mercy…"
"Then we kill them back! Who's afraid of who? Especially that Kururugi bastard—Knight title, captain's insignia, military academy slot… Who knows how many of our people he killed to buy all that? Absolute monster!"
...
In one corner of the mess hall, the Japanese refugee soldiers openly discussed their deployment. Though the dining hall wasn't segregated, the E.U. troops and the Area 11 recruits simply couldn't share the same table.
One weary young man, who had quietly finished his meal without joining in, suddenly stood.
"Takagi, off to chat with your wife again?"
"Yeah. Maybe soon, I won't get another chance."
His words silenced the others. After washing and setting down his tray, he left the mess hall. Walking the gravel path beneath the sunset, the Weisswolf Castle nestled in the forest was undeniably scenic, a place that might soothe the soul—if not for the rumble of steel breaking the calm.
Vrrrm.
Convoys bustled, soldiers stood guard.
One by one, heavy trucks passed, hauling liquid sakuradite fuel, munitions, Knightmare Frames, and specialized materials.
Before long, Takagi reached the phone booths.
Already, many Area 11 soldiers were on calls with their families.
At an open booth, he swiped his ID card. Beep beep. The line connected.
"Hello."
...
Commander's Office.
Beep beep.
The sound of new files and incoming mail.
"...That's the report. Commander Malcal, W-ZERO's pre-battle mobilization has begun. Thanks to your reputation, everyone knows our commander isn't 'Kamikaze Anou,' that fool who threw away lives. Preparations are running smoothly. Everything is in order."
"Mm. Thank you, Lt. Colonel Warwick."
Leila nodded from behind her desk.
'Kamikaze Anou' had been the previous W-ZERO commander's nickname. During the June Battle of Narva, his inhuman orders—loading Knightmares with tons of explosives, forcing the transformable [Alexander] into a fixed four-legged mode, locking cockpits—had led then-Major Leila to seize command. Afterward, she used her connections to have him shuffled off to logistics for retirement.
"Ugh, far too cruel," Warwick muttered.
Now as deputy commander, Klaus Warwick buried himself in endless paperwork—coordinating with Dr. Landru on the squad's readiness, working with Captain Clement's development team on custom mech specs, tapping into the Malcal family's financial network for supplies, pulling strings through General Smilas for more time and Eastern Front support. He couldn't help but sigh.
Being W-ZERO's commander was a thankless burden.
Noticing her deputy's silence, Leila raised her head. "Is something wrong, Colonel?"
Ahem.
Warwick coughed into his fist, scratched his head, then held up his portable tactical terminal. "I don't mean to dampen morale, Commander. But you must be prepared for failure in this operation."
"The orders are convoluted—coordinate with Warsaw garrisons, Minsk troops, recapture lost ground, cut off Britannia's northern salient… Euhhhh."
"Ouais. It's mainly to placate the public. Britannia's victory parade in Königsberg hit Paris hard in the polls," Warwick said with a weary shrug, folding his terminal and pulling a hip flask from his coat. After a swig, he added, "Our fine parliamentarians just want the people's eyes on foreign battles—so they don't turn on them at home."
Bang!
"This is madness!"
Leila slammed her fist on the desk, anger boiling over. "What do the Parisian parliamentarians think lives are?!"
"Bait. No—more like disposable pawns. Commander, we can't refuse the orders. Principles mean nothing. You know what must be done. War is war. The initiative lies with Britannia."
"..."
Leila's fists clenched, nails digging into her palms. She bowed her head in silence.
Then—knock knock.
The uneasy quiet was broken by a knock at the door. Both commander and deputy turned as the door cracked open. A pretty girl with violet hair and green eyes peeked in. "Um, Leila—the five [Apollo's Chariot] have all passed inspection."