Chapter III: The Phantom's Gambit
Area 11: Britannia
In the castle where power wears a crown and ambition wears a mask, two meetings convene. One bathes in light. The other breathes in shadow.
The main castle—that monolithic monument to Britannian supremacy, where nobles preened as peacocks and generals plotted like spiders—hosted twin gatherings that day. While Cornelia engaged in diplomatic theater with another noble in the gilded halls above, something far more sinister stirred in the depths below. A conference room. Secure. Soundproofed. Secret.
Here, in this chamber where shadows had substance and silence had weight, Zero held court.
The attendance was selective, surgical, precise: Ocelot lounged with predatory grace, Skull Face sat motionless as a monument to malice, and beside them—recently arrived in Japan like a surgeon summoned to a dying patient—sat another crucial piece of Zero's grand design.
Para-Medic
A Britannian scientist whose brilliance burned cold and clinical. One of Zero's oldest and most invaluable allies, she was the genius—no, the artist—who had designed the life-sustaining apparatus that kept her leader breathing, thinking, scheming. A master of cybernetics and genetic manipulation, her talents were matched only by her willingness to wade through ethical minefields without flinching, without hesitation, without mercy.
Her experiments, controversial as crucifixes in a synagogue, were conducted exclusively on convicted criminals—individuals Zero believed society had already discarded like yesterday's newspapers. Waste not, want not.
On the room's massive wall screen appeared the weapons manufacturer responsible for developing their Knightmare frames, the man whose genius forged their fangs.
Mr. SIGINT
Donald Anderson. A man who, like Zero himself, bore the burden of disfigurement—his face half-hidden beneath a metallic mask that gleamed like polished promises and broken dreams. Currently stationed somewhere in the labyrinthine politics of Euro Britannia, he negotiated contracts with the delicacy of a demolitions expert and the precision of a watchmaker.
As everyone settled—settled like dust after an explosion, like flies around carrion—Zero opened the meeting. His voice, distorted by the mask's modulator, carried the weight of orchestras and avalanches.
"Gentlemen. Lady." A pause, pregnant with possibilities. "Thank you for attending—one way or another." His gaze, unreadable behind reflective glass, shifted to SIGINT's image. "You're on a secure channel, I trust? Completely, utterly, absolutely secure?"
SIGINT nodded, curt as a guillotine drop. "Yes, Zero. I assure you—I guarantee you—I'm the only one viewing this transmission. My best encryption team is actively blocking any potential eavesdroppers. They're jamming, scrambling, and generally making life hell for anyone stupid enough to try."
"Good. Excellent. Then let us proceed." Zero turned to Para-Medic, who rose from her seat like a specter summoned, clutching a report as if it were a sacred text. "Doctor, enlighten us. What progress have you made with our... special soldiers?"
Para-Medic cleared her throat—a small sound, dry as desert bones. "I'm pleased to announce that our cybernetic enhancement experiments have shown significant progress." Another pause, this one tasting of ash and apologies. "Though we have encountered certain... complications."
Zero sighed—a sound like wind through graveyards. "What kind of complications, Doctor?"
Para-Medic grabbed the remote, her fingers trembling slightly. The feed switched—SIGINT's connection remained, but the main display transformed into a window to hell.
Security footage. Scientists observing from behind reinforced glass, their faces pale as porcelain, nervous as rabbits. A sterile corridor, white as bleached bones. And shambling down that corridor came a cybernetic unit—part man, part machine, all nightmare.
For a moment—one blessed, beautiful moment—everything appeared functional.
Then the unit moved.
It tore—ripped, wrenched, shredded—its own cranial plating away, exposing the partial skull beneath, gray matter glistening like wet clay. The scream that followed was not human. Not anymore. It was the sound of a soul realizing it had been locked in a cage of chrome and steel and suffering.
The unit clawed at its own head, fingers scraping metal, scratching bone, seeking oblivion. Blood—still red, still human—ran down its face like tears from a broken god.
Zero pressed his palm against his mask, fingers splayed like a starfish stranded on shore.
"As you can see," Para-Medic continued, her voice carefully controlled, clinically detached, "test subjects frequently... self-terminate after undergoing the cybernetic integration process. The psychological trauma appears to be—"
"Unbearable," Zero finished softly. "The mind, Doctor, rebels against its imprisonment."
Skull Face leaned back in his chair, utterly unbothered by the disturbing footage, as if watching children play hopscotch instead of watching a man tear himself apart. "Couldn't you just build the bots without the human brain? Seems simpler. Cleaner. Quieter."
"If only it were that simple," Para-Medic replied, adjusting her glasses with the careful precision of someone defusing a bomb. "A purely mechanical unit becomes predictably—pathetically predictable—target practice for any competent enemy. The human mind provides crucial advantages: instinctive threat response, adaptive problem-solving, and creative tactical thinking. Current AI technology simply cannot—will not, can not, shall not—replicate these capabilities at the level we require."
Zero fixed his attention on Para-Medic, his masked face tilting slightly, like a bird considering a particularly interesting worm. "Is there a workaround? A solution? A way to prevent our cybernetic troopers from... that?" He gestured toward the screen where the unit had finally collapsed, twitching, dying, free.
Para-Medic nodded slowly, thoughtfully, like a chess player considering a sacrifice. "Actually, Zero, we have a theory. A hypothesis. A prayer, if you will." She paused. "We believe that if we completely erase the subjects' memories—every memory, every moment, every molecule of who they were—before and during the implantation process, we can eliminate the psychological trauma that triggers the self-destruction impulse. No memories means no sense of loss. No identity means no crisis of identity."
"A ghost," Zero murmured, almost admiringly. "A perfect ghost."
"Precisely."
"Very well. Implement it. Immediately. If that approach fails, we'll reconsider our options. We always have options." Zero gestured for Para-Medic to sit, then turned to Skull Face. "How goes the Amazon operation? Have you located the resistance cell, or are they still playing hide-and-seek in the jungle?"
Skull Face nodded, his scarred face expressionless as a death mask. "Getting close, Zero. Very close. The reconnaissance teams are narrowing it down, closing the net, tightening the noose. Our only obstacle is the Britannian forces—they keep interfering with our operations, stumbling around like drunk elephants, and when we request support, they respond with racial slurs and spit. Some of my men want to put bullets in them... and honestly?" He smiled—a terrible, terrible thing. "I'm tempted to let them. Very tempted."
"I understand your frustration. Believe me, I understand." Zero's voice carried dark amusement, like laughter at a funeral. "Next time you need support, contact us directly—not the Britannians. We'll ensure you get what you need. What you deserve." His gaze shifted to the large screen. "SIGINT, status on our supply shipments?"
"On schedule, Zero. Perfectly on schedule." SIGINT's voice carried professional pride mixed with personal irritation. "Your next delivery of weaponry and Knightmare frames will arrive within the week. However, I'd like to propose a visit to Japan to personally oversee maintenance on your frames. I don't trust Lloyd touching my designs. That preening peacock has the technical competence of a caffeinated chimpanzee."
"I understand your concerns about him—Lloyd makes my skin crawl as well, like insects beneath fabric—but he's undeniably competent. Irritating but competent. Insufferable but irreplaceable. For now, he stays." Zero stood, grabbing the remote. "Now, to our next subject. Our mystery."
He pressed a button. The screen shifted, displaying an image captured from surveillance footage—a figure in black and gold, cape billowing like wings, mask concealing all.
The man who called himself Zero.
The man who dared to steal Zero's own nom de guerre.
"Have we gathered any additional intelligence on this... imposter? This pretender? And what of Suzaku Kururugi, the boy who pilots the Lancelot like a man seeking salvation through death?"
Skull Face sighed, glancing at the screen with the interest of a man watching paint dry. "Not much beyond what our trigger-happy friend already reported." He gestured toward Ocelot, who responded with a mock salute and an obscene gesture involving several fingers and creative anatomical suggestions. "This false Zero remains a complete mystery—a cipher, an enigma, a ghost. And Suzaku's background is buried so deep, it's like someone doesn't want anyone digging. Like they're hiding bodies in that boy's past."
Zero's grip tightened on the remote—plastic creaking, groaning, screaming under pressure.
"However," Skull Face added quickly, sensing the storm brewing behind that mask.
The remote stopped creaking.
"I discovered that Suzaku attends Ashford Academy—some pompous Britannian institution where rich children play at education. Might not seem like much, but we could work with that. We could offer the kid... incentives. Opportunities. A chance to matter in a world that's forgotten him."
"Would you please keep your mind out of the gutter, Skull Face?" Para-Medic said with obvious distaste, her nose wrinkling as if smelling something rotten. "Your subtlety is about as delicate as a sledgehammer to the skull."
But everyone noticed Zero had fallen silent—terribly, terrifyingly silent—staring intently at the screen where the false Zero stood frozen in digital amber.
"Um, Zero... you alright?" Ocelot ventured, his usual confidence wavering like a candle in the wind. "You're doing that thing again. That creepy silent thing."
No immediate response. The silence stretched, expanded, consumed the room like a living thing.
Then Zero turned to Para-Medic. "Doctor, I have a question."
Para-Medic raised an eyebrow, concern flickering across her features like shadows from a dying fire.
"Is my other suit ready?" Zero asked softly, dangerously, eagerly. "The diplomatic one? I want to visit this school. Personally."
Ashford Academy
Where privilege wears a uniform and ignorance wears a smile.
Ashford Academy stood as one of the most prestigious educational institutions in Area 11—a school that countless families aspired to send their children to, dreamed of, lusted after. While theoretically open to all students regardless of nationality or background, the reality was clear as crystal, sharp as broken glass: the overwhelming majority were Britannian citizens, and the few Japanese students walked the halls like ghosts, invisible and insubstantial.
A black limousine—sleek as a shark, dark as midnight, ominous as a hearse—pulled up near the front gate. The driver lowered his window and spoke into the intercom, his voice flat, emotionless, final.
"We're here. Open the gate. Now."
"Y-yes, of course! Please enter, and tell the Prince that we at Ashford Academy welcome—"
The voice cut off abruptly, replaced by a wet, choking sound—gurgling, gasping, dying—as a blade punctured through the speaker grille from the other side. Blood, dark as wine, trickled down the intercom box.
Slowly, inexorably, the gates swung open like the jaws of some mechanical beast.
The limousine proceeded forward, gliding through the entrance like a shadow across snow.
As they approached the main building, the driver noticed a small crowd gathered near the school's iconic clock tower—students clustering like birds around breadcrumbs. The rear window lowered slightly, allowing the passenger a view of the scene. Suzaku Kururugi stood at the center of the group, students greeting him with warm smiles, genuine affection, and acceptance.
Then some students noticed the limousine stopped at the school's entrance.
Curiosity—that dangerous, delicious thing—drew them closer. They watched as a man exited the driver's seat and walked around to open the passenger door with the practiced precision of a funeral director.
Ocelot emerged first, his distinctive tactical gear and revolvers causing several students to step back nervously, fear flickering across their faces like lightning. But he wasn't looking at them—his attention remained fixed, riveted, on the vehicle's interior, as a hunter watching prey emerge from a den.
"All clear, boss. Just students. Soft targets. Innocent targets."
A boot emerged from the darkness of the limousine—polished black leather, expensive, military.
When the figure fully stepped out, fear and recognition swept through the gathered students like a cold wind, like a funeral bell, like the shadow of death itself.
Zero.
Not the false Zero who played a revolutionary in the streets. The real Zero. The one whose name carried weight like lead, whose reputation preceded him like plague. The one who wore royalty like armor and authority like a second skin.
He surveyed the crowd with an unreadable gaze behind that reflective mask, his presence commanding absolute attention. The students stood frozen—rabbits before a wolf, moths before flame, children before a god.
But one student's reaction differed from the rest.
While others showed fear and deference, bowing and backing away, this young man stood his ground. His eyes—violet as twilight, sharp as shattered glass—burned with barely contained hatred, loathing, rage.
Time seemed to slow, to stretch, to stop as Zero and Lelouch vi Britannia locked eyes across the courtyard.
Recognition.
Revelation.
Reckoning.
Ocelot noticed his commander's attention had fixated on something—someone. Following the gaze with the instincts of a predator, he identified the defiant student and reached for his revolver, fingers dancing across the grip, intending to deliver a clear message written in cordite and brass.
Zero's hand caught his wrist—fast as lightning, gentle as a lover's touch, firm as iron.
"Let it go, Ocelot. We don't want to be late. And besides..." Zero's voice dropped to a whisper only Ocelot could hear. "...I want to see what game he's playing."
Ocelot nodded, releasing the gun's grip with obvious reluctance, like a child forced to surrender a favorite toy.
Together, they walked toward the school's entrance, leaving Lelouch standing amid the dispersing crowd—anger and confusion warring on his face like armies on a battlefield, like colors on a canvas, like ghosts in a graveyard.
The principal intercepted them in the main corridor, bowing so deeply his forehead nearly touched the floor, his spine curved like a question mark.
"Your Highness! Your Majesty! Your—" He fumbled for appropriate titles like a drowning man grasping for driftwood. "—it's an absolute honor—no, a privilege—that you've graced our humble school with your presence! We are unworthy! We are—"
Zero continued walking without breaking stride, without acknowledgment, without mercy. "The honor is mine, Principal. I wish to speak with one of your students, Suzaku Kururugi. Arrange a private meeting. Immediately."
The principal trembled, having heard the stories, the rumors, the legends. "Of course, Your Highness! Right away! At once! I'll—"
"One more thing, Principal."
The principal turned back, hope and terror mixing on his face like oil and water.
Ocelot aimed his revolver at the ceiling—smooth, casual, theatrical.
"If anyone—anyone at all—attempts to eavesdrop on my conversation..." Ocelot squeezed the trigger. The gunshot CRACKED through the halls like thunder, like judgment, like the voice of God himself. Students screamed, scrambled, scattered like startled birds, like frightened rabbits, like prey. "...there will be consequences. Severe consequences. Terminal consequences."
They continued toward the private conference rooms, leaving the principal pale and shaking, his expensive suit suddenly too tight, too hot, too heavy.
Private Conference Room
Where truth wears no mask and lies wear a thousand.
To say Suzaku was nervous would be a dramatic understatement, like calling an avalanche a minor inconvenience or a hurricane a stiff breeze. He knew the rumors about Zero—the ruthlessness that ran deeper than oceans, the calculated brutality delivered with surgical precision, the power that bent nations like willow branches.
Swallowing hard—his throat suddenly dry as desert sand—he entered the room.
Simple furnishings greeted him: a table scarred with use, two chairs facing each other like duelists, fluorescent lights humming overhead like mechanical insects. Zero sat in one chair, posture perfect, presence overwhelming. Ocelot stood at attention beside him, hand resting casually on a revolver, fingers drumming an absent rhythm against the grip—tap-tap-tap—like a countdown to catastrophe.
"Suzaku." Zero's voice carried no warmth, no hostility, just observation. "Sit. We have much to discuss. So very much."
Suzaku obeyed, settling into the opposite chair like a man approaching the gallows. His hands trembled slightly—just slightly, barely visible—but Zero noticed. Zero noticed everything.
Zero leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled like a prayer or a spider's web. "You know, Suzaku, I find you... puzzling. Fascinating. Confounding."
"I'm... sorry, sir. What do you mean?" Suzaku's voice emerged barely above a whisper.
Without answering—without mercy—Zero retrieved a folder and slid it across the table. The motion was smooth, practiced, ominous. Suzaku opened it with trembling fingers to find photographs from the invasion—burning buildings reaching toward heaven like desperate prayers, military vehicles crushing everything beneath their treads, Japanese citizens fleeing with terror carved into their faces like sculptures of suffering.
"You are the son of Prime Minister Genbu Kururugi, are you not?" The question hung in the air like smoke, like fog, like poison gas.
Sweat beaded on Suzaku's forehead, gathering like dewdrops before a storm. "Y-yes, sir. He was my father. He was..."
"Tell me—and please, be honest, be truthful, be real—why don't you hate us?" Zero's tone remained conversational, almost curious, like a scientist examining a particularly interesting specimen. "We invaded your homeland, stripped away your freedom like thieves in the night, erased your country's name from maps and minds, reduced your people to numbers—Elevens, not Japanese, never Japanese again. Yet you joined our military. You wear our uniform. You salute our flag. Why?"
"Well, sir, I hold no ill will toward Britannia. Yes, what happened was tragic—terrible, horrific—but I believe the nation can change if we work from within to—"
Zero's laughter cut him off—cold as liquid nitrogen, mocking as a jester's bells, cruel as a torturer's smile. Suzaku froze, every muscle tensing, every nerve screaming danger.
"My, my, my... what an optimist you are. A dreamer. A fool." Zero tilted his head, the mask catching the light like a mirror reflecting nothing. "I understand the sentiment, truly I do, but I find it hard to believe—impossible to believe—believe the country will change in the hands of a suicidal soldier."
Suzaku's eyes widened—pupils dilating, breath catching, heart stopping. "I... I don't... sir, what do you—"
"The Lancelot." Zero rose from his chair, the movement fluid, predatory, inevitable. "The Knightmare frame you pilot is indeed powerful—magnificently powerful—but it has significant flaws. Fatal flaws. The cockpit ejection system hasn't been perfected—it hasn't been properly tested, hasn't been certified safe by any sane engineer. Most pilots refuse to deploy it unless facing certain death. Yet you?" He began circling the table, hands clasped behind his back, each footstep deliberate as a heartbeat. "You activated it without hesitation. Without thought. Without fear."
Zero continued his slow circuit around the table, each word timed perfectly with his footsteps—step, word, step, word, step. "Then, when you were falsely accused of murdering my brother—poor Clovis, always was weak, always was expendable—and this false Zero saved you from execution, you returned to Britannian custody. Voluntarily. Did you realize they wouldn't have executed you? That new evidence would have exonerated you? That you were walking toward salvation and turned back toward damnation?"
Suzaku said nothing. His silence was answer enough.
"Your silence speaks volumes. Libraries. Encyclopedias." The Commander continued his slow circuit, a shark circling prey, a wolf stalking wounded deer. "Every mission, every sortie, every suicidal assignment—you volunteer. You raise your hand. You step forward when others step back. You seek death like a lover, embrace danger like a friend, court oblivion like a bride."
He stopped behind Suzaku's chair, placing a hand on the young man's shoulder—the touch neither gentle nor harsh, just there, present, real. Suzaku tensed but didn't pull away, couldn't pull away, was paralyzed by that simple contact.
"Your father was a great general. Brilliant. Tactical. Stubborn." The hand on Suzaku's shoulder tightened slightly, fingers digging in just enough to hurt. "Refused to surrender even when defeat was inevitable, even when his country burned, even when his people died. That's why I don't believe he committed suicide. And even if he did..." A pause—pregnant, heavy, crushing. "...why would a man of his traditional values use a kitchen knife instead of a wakizashi? Why would he dishonor himself with such a common blade?"
Suzaku's breath caught—stopped, seized, strangled.
"H-how do you know about...?" He couldn't finish the question, couldn't form the words, couldn't breathe.
"If you want to defeat your enemy," Zero whispered, leaning down until his mask was beside Suzaku's ear, his voice barely audible yet somehow deafening, "you must understand not only their battle tactics but their history, their art, their beliefs, their souls. Seppuku—the samurai's honorable death, the warrior's final act, the redemption through ritual. Your father was a traditional man who valued the old ways, who lived by bushido, who believed. If he truly intended ritual suicide, he would have used a proper blade—a family wakizashi passed down through generations. He would have had a kaishakunin—a second to complete the act with mercy and respect."
Another pause—this one tasting of ashes and accusations.
"So, where was his second, Suzaku? Where was the ceremony? Where was the honor?"
Zero leaned down even closer, his mask's cold surface nearly touching Suzaku's cheek. "I think your father was murdered. I think he died not by his own hand but by betrayal. And I think—no, I know, I see—you were the one who killed him."
Tears streamed down Suzaku's face—hot as lava, bitter as poison, endless as oceans. His composure shattered completely, utterly, finally. "I... I had to... he was going to... the guerrilla warfare... millions would have died... I couldn't... I couldn't..." He covered his face with shaking hands, shoulders heaving, body wracked with sobs that sounded like screams, like prayers, like confessions.
"I don't blame you," Zero said, straightening, his voice suddenly gentle—terribly, horribly gentle. "His plan would have resulted in the deaths of millions of Japanese civilians. Scorched earth. Endless war. Genocide disguised as resistance. In a sense, you saved your countrymen from a fate worse than occupation." He walked toward the door, each footstep echoing like a judge's gavel. "But in doing so, Suzaku... you condemned them to something arguably worse than death. You gave them hope. False hope. The cruelest poison of all."
He gestured to Ocelot, who moved to follow like a shadow following substance.
"I'm not here to judge you, Suzaku. I'm not your priest, not your father, not your conscience." Zero paused at the threshold, his back to the broken boy. "You'll be working with my family now—with my organization, with my vision—and I don't employ suicidal soldiers. Broken tools are worthless. So get your affairs in order. Face your demons. Make your peace." He glanced back over his shoulder. "That's all for now. I'll see you at work, Suzaku Kururugi. Oh, and I don't know why that false Zero saved you... But I should thank him for it. He delivered you right into my hands."
The door closed with a soft click—final as a coffin lid, quiet as a grave, absolute as death.
Leaving Suzaku alone in the silence, alone with his guilt, alone with the terrible, crushing weight of truth finally spoken aloud.
Outside the School
Where watchers watch, and players play, and pawns pretend they're kings.
As Zero and Ocelot exited the building—emerging from shadow into light, from confession into conspiracy—the Commander stopped abruptly, his masked head tilting upward like a hound catching a scent.
His gaze was drawn to the clock tower, that tall structure reaching toward the sky like an accusatory finger, like a watchtower, like a throne.
Ocelot noticed immediately, his instincts screaming danger. "Something wrong, boss? You see a threat? Want me to—"
Silence stretched for several seconds—seconds that felt like hours, like years, like eternity compressed into heartbeats.
A figure stood at the top of the tower, silhouetted against the sky, watching them with intensity that could be felt even at this distance. Zero and the distant observer remained locked in an unspoken exchange—a conversation without words, a duel without weapons, a game without rules.
Recognition flowed between them like electricity, like poison, like fate.
"No," Zero finally said, his voice carrying dark amusement, respect, and something else—something dangerous. "It's nothing. Or rather... It's everything."
They returned to the limousine and departed, the vehicle gliding away like a shark returning to deep water.
High atop the clock tower, Lelouch vi Britannia held a black king chess piece between his fingers—rolling it, spinning it, caressing it—watching the vehicle disappear down the road. His expression was thoughtful, calculating, hungry.
The wind whispered around him, tugging at his uniform, carrying secrets and promises and warnings.
"It seems," he murmured to the chess piece, to himself, to the world, "my revenge will be more complicated than I anticipated. More players. More moves. More sacrifices."
He placed the chess piece on the tower's edge, balancing it carefully—precariously, perfectly—where the slightest breeze might send it tumbling to destruction.
"We have a new player in the game," Lelouch whispered, his voice carrying a smile that never reached his eyes, that tasted of ambition and anger and determination. "But every player must eventually face checkmate. Even kings. Especially kings."
The chess piece balanced on the edge, black against blue sky, king overlooking his battlefield, waiting—always waiting—for the game to begin.
For the game to end.
To be continued...