Area 11: Britannia
The Shadow Council
In the imposing castle that served as Britannia's stronghold in occupied Japan, two clandestine meetings were unfolding simultaneously. While Cornelia conducted diplomatic affairs with the colonial nobility in the east wing, a far more sinister gathering convened in the castle's secured subterranean levels. The chamber, lit by a single overhead lamp casting long shadows across polished obsidian walls, hosted only a select few—members of the world's most dangerous criminal organization.
Number 1 sat at the head of a circular table, his fingers steepled before him. Ernst Stavro Blofeld, though his true identity remained known only to SPECTRE's inner circle, commanded absolute authority within the organization. The characteristic white Persian cat rested in his lap, its emerald eyes reflecting the chamber's cold light. Across from him sat familiar faces from SPECTRE's most trusted operatives.
Dr. Julius No appeared via encrypted satellite link from his Caribbean stronghold, his mechanical hands gleaming under the transmission's harsh lighting. The brilliant scientist and SPECTRE's Number 2 had been instrumental in developing their most ambitious projects—including the cybernetic enhancement program that had saved Blofeld's life following his near-fatal encounter with Bond years ago.
"Gentlemen," Blofeld began, his voice carrying the quiet menace of a man accustomed to absolute power, "I trust our communications remain secure?"
Dr. No's metallic fingers drummed against his desk. "Completely, Number 1. My facility's quantum encryption ensures our conversation remains... private."
"Excellent." Blofeld's pale eyes surveyed the room. "Dr. No, please provide your progress report on Project Lazarus."
The scientist's scarred features appeared troubled. "The cybernetic integration program continues to show promise, though we've encountered... psychological complications with our test subjects."
"Elaborate."
Dr. No activated a holographic display showing laboratory footage. SPECTRE agents observed as a figure—part human, part machine—moved through a sterile corridor with mechanical precision. Then, with horrifying suddenness, the subject began clawing at its own skull, emitting an inhuman shriek before collapsing.
Blofeld's expression remained impassive as he stroked his cat. "I see. The human element proves... problematic."
"Precisely. The subjects retain enough consciousness to recognize their condition, leading to immediate psychological breakdown and self-termination. We've lost seventeen test subjects this month alone."
Red Grant, SPECTRE's chief assassin, leaned forward in his chair. The hulking man's cold blue eyes showed no emotion in the disturbing footage. "Why not simply eliminate the human component entirely? Machines are more reliable than men."
"Unfortunately, Mr. Grant, pure automation lacks the tactical intuition necessary for complex operations. Human instinct—the ability to adapt, to think beyond programming—remains irreplaceable. Current artificial intelligence cannot replicate the subtleties of human decision-making."
Blofeld considered this, his fingers never ceasing their methodical stroking of the Persian's fur. "Alternatives, Doctor?"
"Memory suppression during the cybernetic integration process. If we can eliminate the subject's awareness of their former humanity, the psychological trauma should be... manageable."
"Proceed with testing. Failure is not acceptable." Blofeld's attention shifted to another operative. "Kronsteen, your report on the South American operation."
Kronsteen, SPECTRE's master strategist, consulted his tablet with characteristic precision. "The chess game proceeds according to plan, Number 1. We've nearly isolated the resistance cell in the Amazon region. However, Britannia's colonial forces continue to... interfere with our operations."
"Their interference is noted. Henceforth, you will coordinate directly with SPECTRE resources. Britannia's involvement is no longer required." Blofeld's gaze turned to the wall display. "Dr. No, what is the status of our weapons procurement?"
"Manufacturing proceeds on schedule. However, I strongly recommend personal oversight of the Japanese operations. I refuse to entrust SPECTRE technology to amateur hands—particularly that incompetent Lloyd character."
"Your concerns are acknowledged. Lloyd serves his purpose for now, but his utility diminishes daily."
Blofeld stood with predatory grace, activating another display. The screen illuminated with an image of a masked figure—Zero—captured during his rescue of the Japanese pilot. "Our primary objective remains unchanged. What intelligence have we gathered on this 'Zero' and his associate, Suzaku Kururugi?"
Kronsteen's expression soured. "Limited progress, I'm afraid. The vigilante remains a cipher, and the Kururugi boy's past has been expertly sanitized—professional work, suggesting high-level protection."
Blofeld's grip tightened almost imperceptibly on his cat, the only sign of his growing frustration. "However," Kronsteen continued quickly, "we've identified a potential vulnerability. The boy attends Ashford Academy—an elite Britannian institution. The environment may provide... opportunities for recruitment or elimination."
The room fell silent as Blofeld contemplated this information, his pale eyes fixed on Suzaku's image. Finally, he spoke with quiet determination.
"Dr. No, is my diplomatic cover identity prepared?"
The scientist nodded. "Your credentials as a Britannian cultural attaché are impeccable. You'll have full access to the academy."
"Excellent. I believe a personal visit is in order."
Ashford Academy
Ashford Academy represented the pinnacle of Britannian educational excellence, its Gothic spires and manicured grounds a testament to imperial privilege. The institution's gates, wrought iron adorned with the Britannian coat of arms, opened only for the most distinguished families—and today, for a very special visitor.
A midnight-black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided through the morning mist toward the academy's entrance, its diplomatic plates gleaming gold in the autumn sunlight. The vehicle's occupants had already neutralized the gate security with characteristic SPECTRE efficiency—the guard lay unconscious in his booth, his radio crackling with static.
As the limousine approached the main courtyard, the driver noted a gathering of students around the academy's famous clock tower. Through the car's bulletproof glass, the passenger observed a young Japanese man—Suzaku Kururugi—surrounded by his Britannian classmates, their interaction a careful dance of colonial politics and adolescent social dynamics.
The Rolls-Royce came to a silent stop before the academy's grand entrance. Several students noticed the arrival, their conversations dying as they recognized the vehicle's obvious importance.
The driver emerged first—Oddjob, Blofeld's Korean bodyguard, his massive frame imposing in a perfectly tailored chauffeur's uniform. His deadly bowler hat remained in place as he moved with surprising grace to open the passenger door.
From the vehicle's leather interior stepped a figure of understated menace. Ernst Stavro Blofeld presented himself as the perfect Britannian gentleman—expensive wool overcoat, gleaming Oxford shoes, and a walking stick topped with a silver skull. His pale eyes swept the courtyard with predatory calculation.
Most students regarded him with the automatic deference due to obvious authority. However, one young man's reaction proved notably different. Where others showed respect or curiosity, this student—a black-haired youth with violet eyes—fixed Blofeld with an expression of barely contained hatred.
Time seemed suspended as the two adversaries regarded each other: the world's most dangerous criminal mastermind and Lelouch vi Britannia, though neither yet knew the other's true identity.
Oddjob noticed his employer's pause and followed his gaze to the defiant student. The bodyguard's hand moved instinctively toward his hat, but Blofeld's subtle gesture halted the motion.
"Patience, Oddjob. We have business to conduct."
As they entered the academy's hallowed halls, the headmaster rushed to greet them, his academic robes fluttering with nervous energy.
"Lord Blofeld! What an unprecedented honor! The Academy is at your complete disposal, sir!"
Blofeld's smile carried no warmth. "Your courtesy is appreciated, Headmaster. I require a private audience with one of your students—Suzaku Kururugi. The matter concerns... cultural exchange initiatives."
The headmaster's face paled slightly, recognizing the tone of a man unaccustomed to refusal. "Of course, sir! Immediately!"
"One additional consideration," Blofeld continued as they walked. "This conversation touches upon sensitive diplomatic matters. Any... indiscretion... would be most unfortunate."
Behind them, Oddjob's hand rested casually on his bowler hat's brim. "Most unfortunate indeed," he rumbled in his heavily accented English.
Several students who had been following at a distance suddenly found urgent business elsewhere.
The Interview
The academy's private conference room embodied Britannian academic tradition—dark wood paneling, leather-bound volumes, and oil paintings of long-dead scholars. Suzaku entered to find Blofeld seated at the head of an antique table, his white Persian cat curled in his lap. Oddjob stood motionless by the door, a silent promise of violence.
"Please, Mr. Kururugi, sit." Blofeld's cultured voice carried traces of his Austrian aristocratic background. "We have much to discuss."
Suzaku took the offered chair, his military training warring with obvious apprehension. He knew SPECTRE's reputation—whispered stories of the criminal organization that operated beyond national boundaries, answering to no government, constrained by no law.
"You present a fascinating study in contradictions," Blofeld began, stroking his cat with mechanical precision. "The son of General Genbu Kururugi, a man who died rather than surrender his homeland to Britannian rule. Yet here you sit, wearing their uniform, serving their interests."
"Sir, I—"
"Please." Blofeld's raised hand forestalled explanation. From his coat, he produced a leather portfolio containing photographs from Japan's conquest. "Your homeland burned, your people enslaved, your very national identity erased. Most men would harbor... resentment."
Suzaku's jaw tightened. "I believe change must come from within, sir. Violence only breeds more violence."
Blofeld's laugh was soft, cultured, and utterly without humor. "How perfectly naive. You pilot the Lancelot, do you not? A remarkable machine, though I understand its safety systems are... incomplete."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. "You've demonstrated remarkable courage, Mr. Kururugi. Some might call it a death wish."
"I don't know what you—"
"When you were falsely accused of Prince Clovis's assassination, you could have fled. Instead, you returned to face execution. Even after your dramatic rescue by this 'Zero' character, you resumed your duties. Such dedication to one's own destruction is... noteworthy."
Blofeld stood, beginning a slow circuit of the table. "Your father was a student of bushido, was he not? The way of the warrior, with its emphasis on honor, duty... and death before dishonor."
"My father died defending Japan," Suzaku replied, his voice strained.
"Did he?" Blofeld paused directly behind Suzaku's chair. "Seppuku is a ritual art, Mr. Kururugi. It requires specific implements, prescribed ceremonies, and most importantly, a kaishakunin—a second to deliver the final blow. Your father's death involved neither the proper weapon nor the traditional protocols."
Suzaku's hands began to tremble.
"A kitchen knife, wasn't it? Hardly the choice of a samurai embracing honorable death. Unless, of course, someone else made that choice for him."
The room fell silent except for the Persian cat's contented purring.
"He was going to order the use of poison gas," Suzaku whispered, his composure finally breaking. "Millions of our own people would have died..."
"Ah." Blofeld's voice carried a note of satisfaction. "So you prevented a genocide by committing patricide. How... pragmatic."
Tears began flowing down Suzaku's face. "I had no choice."
"Of course you didn't. In your position, I would have done the same." Blofeld returned to his seat, his expression almost paternal. "But you've been attempting to atone through suicide ever since. SPECTRE has need of skilled operatives, Mr. Kururugi, but not those with death wishes."
"SPECTRE?" Suzaku looked up in shock.
"Consider it a job interview. Your psychological profile suggests tremendous potential, once your self-destructive tendencies are... corrected." Blofeld smiled coldly. "That Zero character may have saved your life, but I suspect he's done me a considerable favor as well."
He stood, Oddjob immediately moving to open the door. "We'll speak again soon, Mr. Kururugi. I trust our conversation will remain confidential."
As the SPECTRE agents departed, Suzaku remained alone in the gathering darkness, wondering how his carefully buried secrets had been so easily exposed.
The Gambit Begins
Outside the academy, Blofeld paused at the base of the clock tower, his pale eyes scanning its Gothic architecture. Oddjob followed his gaze to where a solitary figure stood silhouetted against the afternoon sky.
"Trouble, sir?" the bodyguard rumbled.
Blofeld studied the distant figure—Lelouch vi Britannia, though he knew him only as a defiant student with remarkable eyes. "Merely an interesting chess piece, Oddjob. Every game needs its pawns."
As their Rolls-Royce departed through the academy gates, Lelouch remained in the tower, turning a black king chess piece over in his fingers. Below, he could see other students returning to their routines, unaware that they had witnessed the opening moves of a game that would reshape the world.
"So," he murmured to himself, violet eyes reflecting the dying light, "SPECTRE enters the board. The game becomes considerably more... interesting."
He placed the chess piece on the tower's stone ledge, where it caught the last rays of sunlight like a dark promise.
In the distance, the Rolls-Royce disappeared into the Tokyo sprawl, carrying with it the seeds of a conspiracy that would entangle secret agents, resistance fighters, and the fate of nations in a web of intrigue worthy of the world's most dangerous criminal organization.