Chapter 2: The Dragon's Shadow
INT. PRIVATE JET – NIGHT
Lightning flickers beyond the windows as the jet cuts through storm clouds like a silver blade. Inside, opulence breathes through every surface—mahogany panels gleaming like liquid amber beneath crystal chandeliers, leather seats that whisper secrets to those who sink into their embrace. The engines' purr harmonizes with Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2, each note flowing from hidden speakers with the precision of falling rain.
CORNELIUS—the world knows him only as Commander Red—reclines in his throne of burgundy leather, a figure of contradiction. His diminutive frame belies the terror his name inspires across continents. Manicured fingers cradle a crystal goblet, wine swirling like captured starlight, each sip savored with the reverence of a man who has learned that life's finest pleasures are fleeting.
"Château Margaux, 1982," he murmurs, voice silk wrapped around surgical steel. The wine catches the amber light as he holds it to the illumination. "The year of the Falklands War. Do you know what makes this vintage extraordinary, Commander Black?"
Across from him, COMMANDER BLACK sprawls with predatory ease, combat boots propped irreverently on furniture worth more than most men's yearly wages. His massive frame fills the chair like compressed violence waiting for release, tactical gear a stark counterpoint to the cabin's refined atmosphere. A bottle of imported beer sweats in his scarred hands—Guinness, dark as his preferred methods of persuasion.
"It's expensive?" Black draws, foam hissing against his lips as he drinks.
Red's laugh tinkles like crystal wind chimes laced with poison. "Patience, my brutish maestro. This bottle survived a decade of upheaval—economic collapse, political revolution, the very foundations of power shifting beneath men's feet. Like us, it endured. Like us, it emerged... refined."
The marble table between them resembles a war room in miniature. Surveillance photographs scatter like fallen leaves, all centered on one enigmatic figure: Zero. High-resolution images capture him in moments of revelation—extending his hand to Suzaku Kururugi, pulling him from twisted metal and despair. Another frame freezes him mid-vanish, cape billowing like death's own banner against smoke-wreathed ruins.
Red's fingers—pianist's hands, surgeon's precision—trace Zero's outline through the photograph. "Height: one hundred seventy-eight centimeters. Weight: fifty-six kilograms. Lean muscle over an efficient skeletal framework. But measurements never reveal the soul, do they, Commander?"
Black snorts, dismissing the intelligence with a gesture that could crush windpipes. "Souls don't stop bullets. Neither do capes."
Steel whispers against leather as he draws his combat knife—custom-forged, black titanium that drinks light rather than reflecting it. The blade punches through Zero's photographed face with casual brutality, burying itself in marble until spider-web cracks spread like frozen lightning.
Red's smile could cut atmosphere. "Crude. Effective. Utterly you." His gaze never wavers from the pinned photograph, studying it like a masterpiece in a gallery. "But warfare transcends mere termination of biological functions. Victory belongs to those who comprehend their adversary's deepest architecture—desires, regrets, the very blueprint of their motivations."
Rising with fluid grace, he selects another photograph—Zero shielding Kururugi from automatic weapon fire, body language screaming volumes that words could never convey.
"This moment?" Red glides to the window where moonlight transforms the Pacific into molten silver. "Pure instinct. No strategic calculation. No political maneuvering. Fascinating."
His reflection in the glass shifts, predatory intelligence sharpening aristocratic features. "Suzaku Kururugi bore public responsibility for his brother's death. Zero confessed to the crime before global media. Brilliant misdirection? Perhaps. But I detect something infinitely more... personal."
Black retrieves a leather intelligence portfolio, flipping through classified documents with the casual efficiency of a man accustomed to reading other people's secrets.
"Suzaku Kururugi. Born July tenth, 2000. Son of Genbu Kururugi, former Prime Minister of Japan. Father's death officially classified as suicide following military defeat. Subject now serves as honorary Britannian—impressive psychological reconditioning."
The name strikes Red like a tuning fork, resonance spreading through his slight frame. "Genbu Kururugi..." Each syllable rolls off his tongue like aged whiskey. "I was scarcely past adolescence when intelligence reports first whispered that name. A man forged from principles rather than ambition. Iron will tempered in political hellfire. Not the psychological profile of someone who surrenders to despair merely because he lost a war."
He pivots from the window, voice dropping to a whisper that somehow fills every corner of the cabin.
"Investigate them both. I want psychological profiles, financial records, medical histories, childhood traumas—every secret shame buried in their subconscious. Zero didn't save Suzaku for public relations. He did it because something in that boy's pain resonated with his own."
Black leans forward, predator recognizing wounded prey. "You're thinking they share more than geography?"
"I know they do." Red's certainty carries the weight of mathematical proof. "If Zero sought maximum psychological impact, allowing Suzaku's public execution would have generated headlines for weeks. Instead, he chose salvation. Quiet. Personal. Revealing."
"And if their connection runs deeper than suspected?"
Red's smile could freeze hellfire. "Then young Suzaku becomes our skeleton key to Zero's heart. And hearts, my dear Commander Black, possess far more vulnerabilities than minds."
Thunder rolls outside as both men raise their glasses. Crystal sings against glass, pure tone cutting through engine noise.
Their voices unite in the cabin's rarified atmosphere, deadly as benediction:
"Hail, Red Ribbon."
EXT. CAPITAL AREA 11 – RED RIBBON LANDING ZONE – DAY
Hydraulics scream like mechanical demons as the Red Ribbon Command Cruiser settles onto military-grade tarmac, steam venting in controlled bursts that obscure then reveal its imposing silhouette. The aircraft itself defies conventional design—angular where others curve, predatory where others are merely functional. Crimson insignia gleam like fresh blood against matte-black armor plating.
Commander Red descends the deployment ramp with imperial bearing, each footstep precisely calibrated to project authority. His uniform—immaculate white with crimson accents—transforms his diminutive stature into a commanding presence through sheer force of personality. Commander Black follows, their contrasting sizes somehow amplifying both men's inherent menace like opposing musical notes creating harmony through dissonance.
A formation of Red Ribbon soldiers snaps to attention with parade-ground precision. Their uniforms gleam like liquid rubies under the harsh subtropical sun, weapons maintained to surgical standards. Each face behind tactical visors radiates discipline earned through methods that would make drill sergeants weep.
Red pauses, hands clasped at the small of his back, surveying his troops with the satisfaction of a chess grandmaster reviewing pieces positioned for inevitable victory.
"Perfection," he murmurs, voice carrying despite its conversational volume. "Even in this cultural wasteland, my soldiers remember excellence."
A Britannian officer rushes across the tarmac like a man fleeing invisible flames, desperation written in every stumbling step. His uniform bears sweat stains that speak of sleepless nights and stress-induced paranoia.
"Your Highness! What an extraordinary honor to finally meet—"
"Commander Red." Each syllable drops like ice cubes into still water. "Not 'Highness.' Not 'Prince.' Not any hereditary title that implies I derive authority from bloodline rather than capability. Understand?"
The officer's face drains of color until he resembles week-old corpse. His Adam's apple bobs like a fishing lure as he swallows what might be his final words.
Black's chuckle rumbles like distant artillery, but his eyes never leave the officer's exposed throat—measuring, calculating, anticipating.
They resume their measured advance across the sun-baked concrete, the officer struggling to match their synchronized pace while maintaining the illusion of dignity.
"I expected Princess Euphemia or Princess Cornelia to provide personal reception, Commander," the man stammers through increasingly labored breathing. "They convey their sincerest regrets—Princess Euphemia is managing delicate diplomatic negotiations with the Chinese Federation, and Princess Cornelia is currently directing active combat operations against rebel insurgents in the Saitama Ghetto."
Red stops so abruptly that Black nearly collides with his smaller frame. The temperature around them seems to plummet ten degrees as Red's head rotates with mechanical precision toward the trembling officer.
"Repeat. That. Final. Statement." Each word falls like hammerblows against an anvil.
The officer's lips move soundlessly for several heartbeats before his vocal cords remember their function. "The... the Saitama Ghetto, sir. Princess Cornelia is leading a full-scale urban assault against—"
Red's laughter could shatter bulletproof glass. "Of course she is. Of course."
EXT. SAITAMA GHETTO – BATTLEFIELD – DAY
Hell has established a forward operating base in the ghetto's twisted streets. Buildings burn like sacrificial altars, their smoke pillars reaching toward heaven like accusations against divine justice. The air tastes of cordite, fear, and dreams dying violent deaths. Each gunshot writes another tragedy in lead and crimson ink across concrete pages.
Bodies litter the asphalt like discarded dolls—rebels who died clutching obsolete weapons, innocents whose only crime was geographic proximity, children who never learned that monsters were real before becoming their victims. The scene resembles something from Dante's imagination rendered in high definition.
Britannian soldiers corner a huddled mass of civilians in an alley that reeks of desperation and industrial decay. Women clutch children against their chests, whispering prayers, their only armor against approaching darkness. Fear radiates from them in waves visible to predators.
"Form firing line!" The order cracks across the alley like breaking bones.
Rifles rise in perfect unison, products of military drilling designed to transform humans into killing mechanisms. Fingers find triggers with the muscle memory of countless training exercises.
A mother covers her young son's eyes while her own gaze seeks something beyond the material world. Tears carve clean tracks through soot-stained cheeks, each drop reflecting flames like tiny mirrors of destruction.
"Fire at will!"
Thunder rolls through the alley—but pain never arrives.
The mother opens her eyes to discover the Britannian soldiers crumpled like broken marionettes, their life's blood spreading in expanding pools that reflect the burning sky. Death had come for them instead.
Red Ribbon soldiers emerge from the smoke like avenging angels given physical form. Their armor gleams despite the chaos surrounding them, weapons still radiating heat from righteous violence just delivered.
One approaches—a woman whose golden hair catches firelight like spun sunbeams. Her gauntleted hand extends not in conquest but in salvation, palm upward in the universal gesture of aid offered freely.
The mother hesitates, survival instinct warring with desperate hope, then grasps the offered lifeline.
"You're safe now," the soldier says, voice carrying the gentleness of lullabies sung to frightened children. "No one will harm you while we draw breath."
Small faces peer from behind their mothers' protective embrace, eyes wide with wonder that transcends fear. These armored figures aren't conquerors—they're guardians.
"Who... who are you?" the mother whispers, voice cracking with emotions too large for words.
Pride rings in the soldier's response like cathedral bells on Sunday morning:
"We are the Red Ribbon Army."
EXT. ABOVE THE BATTLEFIELD – RED RIBBON AERIAL UNITS ENGAGE – DAY
Sutherland units flee through smoke-choked skies like mechanical birds with clipped wings, their pilots screaming coordinates into radio static that no longer matters. But their hunters aren't the rabble they expected—Red Ribbon aerial units descend like mechanical angels of judgment, their weapon systems painting the sky in fire and divine retribution.
"Command, we're taking concentrated fire from unknown hostiles! Repeat, unknown aircraft engaging with superior—"
The transmission dissolves in a sphere of superheated plasma. The Sutherland tumbles earthward like Icarus after his hubris, trailing smoke and the pilot's final regrets.
Ground-based Britannian forces establish defensive positions inside a gutted department store, their uniforms stark white against rubble the color of dried blood. Red Ribbon ground units advance through the haze with the inexorability of geological processes, their weapons humming with barely contained annihilation.
A single launcher speaks once.
The building ceases to exist, transformed into expanding clouds of concrete dust and vaporized ambitions scattered to winds that care nothing for human conflict.
The ghetto no longer qualifies as a battlefield. It has become a demonstration.
INT. CORNELIA'S MOBILE COMMAND CENTER – SAITAMA REGION – DAY
The command trailer shudders as another explosion rewrites the horizon in shades of orange and red. Cornelia li Britannia stands rigid before her tactical displays, watching confidence evaporate like water in desert heat. Red indicators bloom across multiple screens like electronic flowers announcing defeat.
"Delta Three has gone dark!" An operator's voice fractures under psychological pressure. "Rino Squad is... Jesus Christ, they're all gone!"
Additional screens die in sequence, each unit vanishing from electronic existence with the finality of candles extinguished by hurricane winds. Cornelia's hands curl into fists as months of strategic planning dissolve into digital static.
"These aren't ordinary terrorists," she snarls, rising from her command chair like a lioness detecting the scent of rival predators. "Prepare my personal Sutherland—I'm going to demonstrate why they call me—"
A new voice cuts through the communication chaos, electronically modulated but carrying unmistakable authority that makes career soldiers' spines straighten involuntarily:
"All Britannian military personnel will cease current operations and evacuate the combat zone immediately. This directive originates from Commander Red of the Red Ribbon Army. Non-compliance will result in immediate and total termination."
Silence falls across the command center like a funeral shroud. Every eye in the trailer turns toward their princess with expressions that previously would have constituted treason.
Cornelia's jaw works soundlessly before venom finds articulation:
"Him."
"All units, execute tactical withdrawal. That constitutes a direct order from the commanding authority." She storms toward the exit, leaving her staff to exchange glances filled with newfound appreciation for their own mortality.
The rules of engagement have evolved beyond recognition. And evolution, they're discovering, rarely favors the unprepared.
EXT. BATTLEFIELD PERIMETER – RED RIBBON DEPLOYMENT – DAY
Smoke parts like theater curtains are manipulated by invisible stagehands, revealing the Red Ribbon Mobile Command Base—a construct that defies conventional military architecture. Obsidian black surfaces flow into crimson accents, creating something that appears grown rather than manufactured. It settles onto the devastated terrain with the authority of destiny made manifest, its very presence rewriting tactical assumptions.
Deployment doors hiss open with mechanical precision that borders on artistic performance.
Commander Red emerges first, moving with choreographed grace that transforms each step into a deliberate statement. Commander Black flanks him like a faithful shadow, their synchronized movement speaking of campaigns fought across multiple continents where trust meant survival.
Cornelia waits with military bearing, flanked by Gilbert G.P. Guilford and Andreas Darlton. Her posture radiates fury barely contained by noble breeding and tactical necessity.
"What the absolute hell do you think you're—"
The slap echoes across the battlefield like a rifle shot, its acoustic signature cutting through background noise with crystalline clarity.
Cornelia staggers backward, her gloved hand flying to her cheek where a red handprint blossoms like a flower of humiliation. Shock transforms aristocratic features into something resembling human vulnerability.
Guilford and Darlton surge forward with the reflexes of men trained to die for their princess, hands moving toward weapons with practiced efficiency, but Black's lazy smile freezes them mid-motion like insects trapped in amber.
Red's voice carries the chill of arctic winds howling across barren tundra: "You pathetic, privileged child. Zero belongs to me. Your emotional outburst has compromised months of psychological groundwork that required surgical precision to establish."
He steps closer, his diminutive presence somehow expanding to fill available space through sheer force of personality. "My operational parameters required subtlety. Trust-building. Strategic patience. Qualities your emotional instability renders impossible."
"Our tactical approach was mathematically sound!" Cornelia's voice cracks like thin ice under pressure. "We recreated the original incident parameters—if Zero responded predictably once, statistical analysis indicated—"
"Statistics?" Red's laughter could freeze plasma. "Our brother died following those same statistical projections. Have you already forgotten the audio recordings of his final moments?"
Darlton's hand inches toward his sidearm with the slow inevitability of continental drift. "If you continue threatening the Princess—"
"Threaten?" Red's eyebrow arches with theatrical precision that would make stage actors weep with envy. "My dear Colonel, I never issue threats." His gaze flicks toward Black with casual indifference. "If his hand moves another millimeter toward that weapon, remove his head from his shoulders."
Darlton's hand freezes as if flash-frozen by liquid nitrogen.
"That constituted a threat. Please observe the tactical distinction."
Red clasps his hands behind his back, assuming the posture of a disappointed university professor addressing particularly slow students.
"You labor under the delusion that warfare consists solely of superior firepower applied without an intellectual framework. But our target thrives in shadows, derives strength from symbolism, and feeds on the very persecution you provide. You cannot crush an abstract concept with conventional ordnance, Princess. You can only pervert it through superior psychological manipulation."
His final words fall like stones into still water, each ripple carrying implications:
"And do cease referring to yourself as the 'Goddess of Victory.' It makes you sound clinically delusional."
INT. RED RIBBON MOBILE COMMAND CENTER, PRIMARY CHAMBER – LATER
Commander Red occupies his command throne—not sitting within it, but inhabiting it like a natural force given architectural expression. Crystal wine glass rotates slowly between manicured fingers, each revolution catching chamber lighting like captured stars performing private ballet.
Shadows stir in the chamber's corners where conventional illumination fears to penetrate, and a voice emerges like silk drawn across surgical steel:
"Brutal, even by your typically refined standards, Commander. Do you anticipate retaliatory action from the princess?"
Red's smile could cut industrial diamonds. "Let her attempt it. I possess more than sufficient firepower to reduce her delusions to component atoms."
"Good evening, General Blue." He doesn't raise his eyes from contemplating wine that costs more than most soldiers' annual salaries. "Punctuality remains your most reliable virtue."
The shadows ripple like disturbed water, and GENERAL BLUE materializes with the casual elegance of smoke given human form. An arrowhead spins between his fingers like captured lightning, each rotation defying several laws of physics.
"I could terminate her existence tonight," he offers with a smile that would make angels reconsider their career choices. "No evidence would survive morning sunlight."
"Tempting beyond measure," Red muses, swirling wine that reflects chamber lights like liquid rubies. "But waste not, want not, as my grandfather used to say. She retains utility—for now."
He rises with fluid grace that makes water seem clumsy by comparison. "Are they prepared for activation?"
INT. CLASSIFIED LOCATION – CONTINUOUS
General Blue's voice crackles through quantum-encrypted communication channels: "Both subjects have achieved full operational readiness, Commander. The androids await your authorization."
EXT. DR. GERO'S MOUNTAIN LABORATORY – DAWN
High above civilization's madness, where oxygen grows thin and only the mountains keep humanity's darkest secrets, a laboratory carved from living rock has waited in silence for this moment.
Inside the sterile white chamber, two figures rest within cylindrical containment pods that hum with barely audible energy frequencies. Cryogenic mist swirls around their suspended forms like artificial clouds, while monitoring equipment tracks biological functions that transcend normal human parameters.
ANDROID 17—black hair framing features that could have been carved by Renaissance masters, his lean form radiating contained power even in stasis. Beside him, ANDROID 18—blonde hair flowing like spun gold, her petite frame concealing enough destructive potential to level city blocks.
Warning lights bathe the laboratory in crimson as automatic systems begin their activation sequence. Steam vents from the pods with mechanical precision, and their transparent aluminum covers retract with hydraulic whispers.
Two pairs of eyes open simultaneously—17's dark as midnight oceans, 18's blue as arctic ice. No confusion marks their awakening. No disorientation clouds their perception. They simply... are.
They step from their pods with movements that flow like poetry written in human form, bare feet making no sound against polished floors. Their android physiology adapts instantly to ambient temperature and atmospheric pressure.
17 stretches with feline grace, joints producing soft pops that echo through the chamber's antiseptic silence. "How long this time?"
18 examines her reflection in the pod's surface, fingertips tracing features that haven't aged a day since their creation. "Does it matter? Time flows differently for us."
Without discussion or ceremony, they move to equipment lockers containing their operational gear. 17 dons dark clothing that accentuates his predatory elegance—black jeans, vest, and boots designed for both style and function. 18 selects her signature denim ensemble, each piece tailored to accommodate her unique specifications while maintaining civilian appearance.
They regard each other with the understanding that transcends biological sibling relationships. Created rather than born. Programmed rather than raised. But somewhere in their artificial consciousness, something resembling affection has taken root.
"Another war," 17 observes without particular emotion. "Another master expecting miracles."
18's smile could melt permafrost. "At least this one pays well. And promises us something we've always wanted."
"Revenge against Britannia?"
"Freedom to choose our own path afterward."
They move toward the laboratory's exit, their synchronized steps creating a rhythm that speaks of shared purpose. Outside, the world waits in ignorance of what approaches—two beings whose power defies conventional measurement, bound temporarily to serve the Red Ribbon Army's ambitions.
Not from loyalty. Not from programming that could be overridden.
But from mutual interest in seeing Britannia burn.
Android 17. Android 18.
The mountain laboratory falls silent once more, its purpose fulfilled. In the valley below, shadows grow longer as dawn breaks across a world about to learn new definitions of power.
The dragon has awakened his most dangerous servants.
And they walk toward war with smiles on their faces.