Code Geass 1. The Fall of a Thousand Thoughts

**Code Geass: Rise of the Greens**

_Chapter 1: The Fall of a Thousand Thoughts  
_

Imperial Calendar Year 2018

Gregorian Calendar Year 1963

Southeast Russia

"_What have we got, private?_"

"_It looks like another dead Knightmare squad, warrant officer. One of ours._"

"_Chyort. More of them along the way as we go. I'm sure those Britannian mudaks are laughing it up when they see our men down and out. Check it out, maybe we can salvage some ammunition or spare parts._"

The faint, seemingly static noises he could hear, somehow ringing in his ears even now as he tried to unsuccessfully block it out, seemed familiar to him for some reason. His brain urged him to ignore the strange sounds, to just go back to sleep, but some impossibly active part of him kept him awake, deepening his curiosity. Something moved in the small, confined space, and he tried to bring it into his blurred view. What was that, illuminated by the glowing red light? It twitched, rising and stretching some sort of attached appendages. These small limbs folded and slowly unfolded again, thin and pale in the low light.

And then his throbbing head kicked in with such force that it literally threw his head back.

"Aaah! Son of a bitch!" he snarled, blinking rapidly as he tried to discern his surroundings, his mental routines slowly coming back to him as his blood flow began to pick up again. The object that he had been so fixedly examining before turned out to be his hand, shaking now as he felt adrenaline being pumped into his veins. His head settled back again as his eyes slowly scanned his cramped surroundings, taking in what he could remember. Fire control panel, weapon selection sub-menu. But to what?

His head tilted again as he realized that he was on his side, the blood from his split temple leaking down into his eyes. His hand rose blindly to rub away the crimson liquid, wiping it off on his uniform before he squinted again, trying to discern exactly what he was in here with this low light. A single bulb glowed above his head, a cheery dark red that seemed to cast indiscernible fate wherever it touched.

'I should be dead,' he realized, as his hands automatically reached towards another control panel. 'I shouldn't be alive right now to be doing this. But why am I not?'

A question that would have to be answered later, he thought, shuffling the query to the back of his still rebooting brain to be replaced by the need to get out of here. He grasped the control yokes beneath him, twisting them back and forth first once, then twice, activating the systems beneath him. With a storm of static and a burst of abruptly bright light, the large screen in front of him lit up, blinding him momentarily.

"_Sir! We've got some activity over here!_"

"_Then what the hell are you waiting for? Get clear!"_

The sharp, musical sound of impacts sparking against the hull of this machine came to his ears, and he pulled against one of the yokes. The screen finally came into clearer definition, and he could vaguely make out the form of an arm blocking it. No, wait, it was more of a cannon, seeing as how it had no hands.

"Hey, hold your fire! I'm one of you! Friendly, friendly!"

It was an instinctual thing, a word process that hadn't gone through his mind. Someone was firing on him? These men, where were they anyway, were on his side? Which side were they on?

"_Chyort! Stop shooting! Hold fire!"_

There was that sound again. It sounded like a voice, muted and echoing against his skull. His hand lowered the yoke he had raised, and the cannon on screen lowered again, but it appeared that it was broken once more. A flurry of white greeted his eyes again, accosting his senses in this small space.

"_Quick, get that cockpit open! He probably can't get out!"_

He turned his head over to the wall, blinking as the sharp white from the screen fought against the red from the bulb, to find himself facing yet another panel.

'What is this machine?'

This panel appeared to be where the voices were coming from, and his arm reached up clumsily, hitting at least half a dozen other instruments to reach it before he finally pressed a button on the panel. A green light blinked on next to it, and he rasped "Who's out there?"

"_Hang on, soldier. We'll get you outta there."_

He heard thumps this time, not the sharp, short musical notes of bullet impacts. It was more like someone was hitting the machine with a fist. He even heard someone out there say "Chyort! Where's the switch? Nikolai, get over here and help me!"

Finally, whoever it was seemed to find whatever switch he was looking to discover. With a hiss of moving pistons, the entire rear of the space slid open, slicing into his flesh with such a blistering cold that his head wound roared with agony, sending his head snapping back once again into the headrest.

"Get him outta there!"

"Hang on, soldier, you'll be okay!"

Over the ferocious pain of his concussion, he could feel himself pulled from his seat and deposited out in the cold, feeling the snow lick at his face and hands.

"Someone get a coat over him! He'll freeze to death out here!"

Warmth smothered over him once again, and he let his head fall back as a pair of hands attended to his head wound. He cringed once or twice at the sting before he felt something compress against it.

"Report, private?"

"Sir. Looks like one of ours, alright. Knightmare pilot, head wound. Other than just being a little banged up, both the frame and the pilot appear to be okay."

"Good."

He blinked again, squinting as a face swam into his vision through the white of the cold snowstorm around them. The face was wrapped in a balaclava, further covered by snow goggles and a white hood that helped it blend into their surroundings.

"Sir! Looks like he's up."

The hooded face slipped out of his field of vision to be replaced by another, similarly covered. A gloved hand slid up and lowered the balaclava to reveal a grizzled jaw coated in stubble.

"How are you doing there, soldier?"

His cracked, now he realized it, lips split apart, a dry tongue licking out at them before he said, hoarsely, "Been…better."

The face above him smiled and a hand patted him on the shoulder.

"That's the spirit. You remember anything? Name, rank, unit?"

Wait. He knew those things. They were hovering there, at the forefront of his mind, trying to fight past the concussion. He opened his mouth, pausing as he tried to collect his thoughts again.

"Private Anatoly Vyaschelev. Fifth Armored Battalion, Thirty-First Shock Army."

"Good, that's something at least. Now we know who you are. Private, do you remember what happened here?"

What had happened? He could barely remember when he'd woken up.

"No sir."

The face grunted, the hand rubbing the stubble in absent thought. Another voice came from outside his field of vision.

"Must be the concussion, sir. He probably can't remember a thing."

"Can he at least pilot a Knightmare?"

"Who knows? Some of them have it ingrained in them further than just memory."

The face nodded, and the hand reached down, towards him. His own hand worked of a seemingly foreign accord, welcoming it and allowing himself to be pulled up.

"C'mon, soldier, let's get you up and back to your machine."

Suddenly on his feet, Anatoly felt a wave of dizziness hit him as all the blood rushed out of him. He staggered into the man who had helped him, and the officer steadied him, helping him out.

"You alright there, private?"

Anatoly swallowed down his nausea, licking his dry lips again to try and form words, tasting the blood leaking out from the cracks.

"Y-yessir. Just need to get my bearings."

What was this? His mouth said he was fine, but he felt like he was going to fall over! His eyes skipped over the ground, finding his black boots and the bottoms of his green fatigues. There was, at least, no more blood, and he brought his left arm up to touch his forehead, his bare hand coming back with crimsons across his now numbed fingers.

"Careful, soldier. We've bandaged up that head wound, but don't bang it up anymore. Still a long way to a field hospital."

He looked up again to the man supporting him, the same grizzled face, eyes still hidden behind those large, strange looking goggles. He nodded, standing up straight again and taking a few cautious steps back to his machine. Two other soldiers, dressed with white snow coats to help blend in, helped him climb back into his chair. He finally let his head fall back a little before catching it and bringing it forward as they pushed him in, shutting the cockpit behind him.

"_Private Vyaschelev? Can you hear me? This is Warrant Officer Ryberskay. Listen, I need you to get your Knightmare's main power online. Alright?"_

Right, okay. Then that panel above his head was the radio. He fumbled again before pressing the talk button, watching the green light come on before he responded "Yes. I hear you. Just gimme a second, I'm still trying to remember where everything is."

"_Just don't take too much time. We've got a Britannian armored convoy breathing down our backs, and only a few minutes left before we have to leave. Out."_

Britannians. Who were they? His mind was so jumbled right now, he could barely think. Right, the Britannians were the enemy, shoot them first, ask questions later. With that comforting realization made, he tucked it away, glad to remember anything at all, and resumed his search for the power switch. The dim red light was hindering his sight, and the screen wasn't helpful at all. The glare was blinding him, making it impossible to find anything. He would have simply felt around, but he felt that in a machine full of switches connected to who knew what kinds of weapons, that was a little bit of a bad idea.

Finally, his brain seemed to switch into 'pilot' mode once again, and his hand moved to his left, flipping up a plastic cover to depress the large button underneath. Usually, a large button under a plastic cover would not be something you would want to press, but this one would reboot the system, restoring primary functions and allowing him to finally stand his machine up. The seconds in the darkness crawled by, and Anatoly suddenly felt the proximity of the walls, a wave of claustrophobia sweeping over him.

Finally, however, with a whine of cooling fans spinning up, panels and consoles gradually began booting up, lights flashing and programs running their startup procedures. The regular lights came on overhead, and Anatoly let out a breath of relief. The large screen in front of him flickered to life, and although conditions outside hadn't changed, the other sensors that couldn't have been powered up before accompanied it on their various screens and submenus. Radar, heat-vision, heartbeat and ID tag maps, it was all there.

Anatoly breathed a sigh of relief as he went through a systems check like it was second nature. Obviously, his mind still remembered how to work with this, like it was a habit. Now, the only question was how to get it to stand back up again.

He keyed the radio panel, saying "Sir, this is Vyaschelev. I've restored main power and am now going to attempt to stand back up. Recommend you get clear."

Not waiting for the warrant officer's reply, Anatoly gripped the control yokes once again, letting out a breath before twisting them around again, depressing the acceleration pedals at the same time.

With a gigantic, heart-jumping lurch, the swing of the cannon arms downward to strike the ground, combined with the accelerators spinning up simultaneously, was enough force to throw the machine up out of the snow, staggering around briefly on legs not built for that specific task before finally steadying itself and standing proud and tall.

From outside, he could hear the cheers of the foot soldiers as they witnessed the reanimation of the Panzer-Hummel, its mighty guns ready to fight.

"_You might have given us more advanced warning, Vyaschelev, but it's good to see another machine up and about!"_

The radio panel, now on Anatoly's left side, was within easy reach, and he keyed it, responding "Yessir. Any orders for me?"

The radio fell silent, and using the heat seeking sensors, Anatoly was able to see the infantry all huddled up together, talking with what had to be Warrant Officer Ryberskay, as he pointed and moved his hands to indicate to the other soldiers his orders. Anatoly cocked his head as he watched through the monitor. Since EU electronics weren't as sophisticated as Britannian ones, he remembered that at least, radio networks for infantry, tanks and Knightmares were all on different loops, and had to be keyed on special frequencies set aside for communicating from one branch to the other. Only officers in the infantry had access to these, however, making a combined arms attack difficult for the EU.

The soldiers broke from the group, scattering to different locations. Most hid behind other wrecked Panzer-Hummels, while other scraped down into the snow, digging themselves shallow foxholes to lay down in and provide them with scant cover.

"_Vyaschelev, we've had a change of plans. There's about twenty of us down here, and with your Knightmare, I think we can finally stop running and give these mudaks the fight they so richly deserve. Are you up for it?"_

_*******************_

Russian Dictionary

Chyort: a curse, usually meaning 'dammit'

Mudak: another curse, an insult that means 'asshole'


	2. Locked, Loaded and Lost

**Code Geass: Rise of the Greens**

_Chapter 2: Locked, Loaded and Lost_

Prince Schneizel's Command Fleet

Off the Coast of Norway

"I expected better results from this invasion, admiral."

The current second-in-command of Prince Schneizel's invasion fleet turned to regard the second prince of Britannia as the tall, blond haired strategist as he viewed the holographic world map, displaying the position of all the forces under his command. Schneizel, Britannia's famed strategic genius, was not happy at all.

The territories of the EU were highlighted in orange, showing exactly which pieces of land they had controlled. After breaking their blockades at the French and Spanish coastlines, Britannian forces had swiftly moved forward, conquering these countries with ease while their soldiers were destroyed at their posts. Some, like Portugal, had immediately surrendered when the blockades had been demolished, in no small part thanks to assistance from Knight of the Round Suzaku Kururugi, while some of the larger ones, like fascist Germany and the Commonwealth of Russia, were putting up a harder fight.

The admiral cleared his throat as he continued with his briefly interrupted strategic report.

"My lord, reports from the front indicate that we have broken through most of the EU's defensive line in Western Europe. France and Spain have fallen, with large scale resistance in the British Isles and along the border of Germany. The Germans have been able to throw up such strong resistance that any attempt to break through is met with utter annihilation."

The prince scoffed as he remarked "I assume we are dealing heavy blows to them at the same time?"

"Of course, my lord. It is now a war of attrition, a battle which we will win with our superior numbers. The EU may have withdrawn eighty percent of their armed forces from Europe before we took those territories, but that matters not now."

"How goes the naval fight?"

"Sweden is fiercely resistant over the waters, my lord. Their navy is far more suited to full out war than ours is. For now, we are getting nowhere on the Arctic Ocean, even with the Royal Marines assisting."

"And Africa?"

"Most of their forces stationed there were scattered with barely a fight. We have managed to drive them all into the Congo, where their morale has been bolstered by a warlord named Ahtiba. He's convinced the Africans to start a guerrilla campaign, and uses the jungles to his advantage."

"So we can assume that the rest of the continent is mostly quiet and under our thumb. Quite a fight, we have here. Now, I only have one more question. I sent a large flanking armada from the homeland west to strike at Russia."

The admiral swallowed, briefly, before replying "My lord, I am aware of this flanking attack. Unfortunately, the flanking force is meeting with…unexpected problems."

Schneizel cocked his head to the side, his eyes focused on the admiral with a cold, hollow, deadly look. "How so?"

"W-well my lord, the problem is not so much numbers or supplies. The homeland is close enough to ship soldiers and necessary equipment out almost hourly. The problem instead lies in fighting the battle itself."

"I thought the Russians were supposed to be years behind our technology. We also shot down the majority of their planes, did we not?"

"Unfortunately, my lord, they have numbers able to rival ours. Not only can they afford to field an equal, actually superior, amount of troops against us, our only advantage IS our technology. The Russians have lived and died, conquered and ruled through attrition warfare. They throw their men at us like their soldiers do bullets. Each conscript is out there fighting for his life because he knows that if he retreats, there is a bullet waiting for him from an officer's pistol. Furthermore, in areas we appear to have taken, the Russians have proven themselves adept at guerrilla warfare. The enormous, wide open spaces of the Russian steps have been revealed to be an ally to the locals, and quite a hindrance to us."

Schneizel smiled and chuckled cruelly at this news, rubbing his chin absently as he considered what he had heard. "The Commonwealth sure don't think much of their soldiers, now do they? No body armor and old weapons for their infantry, no skill for their pilots. Although their naval and armored forces do indeed appear to be putting up quite an equal piece of resistance. Panzer-Hummels were bad enough, but then we found that they had tanks strong enough to withstand Sutherland bullets. Quite an astonishment how badly our intelligence led us off course there."

"Erm…yes, my lord."

Schneizel swept his cloak aside to begin walking towards the door out of the room, now musing to himself. "Admiral. Concentrate our forces on destroying the Commonwealth's forces. Don't worry about the Germans. I have the feeling that we won't be getting them to bow to us. That will be all."

* * *

Southeast Russia

_"Okay, a little more forward...good! Okay, if you can hold it like that, we should be able to fool them!"_

A Knightmare frame was, as it seemed to be standard, a tall and bulky piece of equipment. A Panzer-Hummel fulfilled that role by double, with its twin heads, enormous cannon arms and it's boxy frame, higher than a Sutherland. There was really no point in hiding it, then. The only that really could be done was to try and keep it out of sight until the ambush was in full effect.

Anatoly finally had the Panzer-Hummel in position behind the tree, letting the control yokes come back to their original position. As he watched Warrant Officer Ryberskay walk away on thermal vision, something itching in the back of his mind made him key his radio. Since Russia didn't use headset comms like the Germans did, they had to press the talk button in order to get a message out.

"Warrant Officer? A question, if you please."

He watched the barely discernible orange figure on his monitor stop, standing amidst the slurry of blue around him. The shape's arm rose to the head, and a voice came back.

_"I hope I have an answer for you."_

"Remind me again, if we're on separate comm links, how is it I can hear the others? Shouldn't they be on a different loop?"

_"You're a sharp one. Happens to be thanks to the default of the Knightmare frames. The Germans liked to use combined arms tactics, so they had their troopers and tanks talk to each other all the time. You can hear them, but they can't hear you unless you're using this frequency. You must've had it set when you were knocked out."_

"Ah, da. Spasiba, warrant officer."

_"No problem. Just be ready for the ambush."_

"Da. Not a problem."

There had been an estimated twenty minutes until the convoy came into firing range when Anatoly had accepted the invitation to the fight. Now they had seconds, if they were lucky. The infantrymen had dug in, wielding AS-21s and even a couple toting RPM-4s. This sorely outdated technology, useful in both the Great Overland War and the First Pacific War, were well past their time, even when these weapons were solid and reliable.

Two men were crouched down in a makeshift trench, loading an anti-Knightmare rifle and preparing the enormous explosive rounds that went into it. Somehow, these men had not been able to gather up the courage to attack their pursuers on their own, instead being forced to resort to running. How much of a relief was it, then, that a single Panzer-Hummel gave them such bravery?

_"Okay, target is coming into visible range. I have them on thermals."_

_"Roger that. All units, this is Ryberskay. Maintain radio silence and wait until they have passed point zero-zero-one to open fire."_

And so, the comms fell silent, all the Russian infantry afraid, with good reason, that the sophisticated Britannian radar technology would intercept their radio signals and warn the various tanks and Knightmare frames coming down what was left of the road towards them. The plan was for the column to be right in the middle of the squad's hiding place where Anatoly would step out and fire the first shot.

On the Panzer-Hummel's thermals, the convoy slowly began to draw closer, and it's pilot's thumb hovered over the button that would instantly open a door to the Britannian's version of hell.

Unfortunately, just when the first Knightmare had reached Anatoly's effective firing range in this damned blizzard, one of the soldiers on the anti-Knightmare gun simply snarled _"To hell with the plan! I'm tired of waiting, let's just blow these bastards to hell!"_

With a loud **_snap!_** that could be heard even over the blistering winds, the gun fired, and the bullet, almost tangibly visible as it sliced through the flying snow, smashed into the lead Sutherland's torso, folding it like a tin can, most likely splattering the pilot, before the Knightmare detonated, spraying shrapnel everywhere.

_"What the hell are you doing, you stupid svoloch!"_ That would definitely be Ryberskay, and he had the right to even execute the man for incompetence. Unfortunately, he didn't quite have the opportunity to do so, as a tank round whistled down the road, right over the sniper team's heads.

_"Chyort! Everyone, return fire! Take down as many of them as you can!"_

If it had been a simple matter of infantry versus infantry, the Russians would most definitely have won, but as it was, any engagement where the enemy had armored units and plenty of flat ground meant bad news for the defenders.

Anatoly twisted the control yokes, sliding out from behind the tree before he punched the accelerator, zipping toward his target that he could visibly see on his thermal vision's monitor.

Britannian Knightmares were mostly designed for close range warfare, as well as the accessibility of several different weapons. This made them ill-suited to engage a Panzer-Hummel.

Anatoly thumbed the triggers for both cannons, firing the large caliber shells straight at the next Sutherland, which had just slid out of the line to open fire on the infantry. The cannon rounds punched holes large enough to make a man's torso disappear in the Sutherland, making it double over and eject the cockpit. The good news was that over half of the small column, group was more like it, was made of tanks, conventional warfare units that the infantry could easily mop up. Even as that thought crossed Anatoly's mind while he triggered the machine guns on the Panzer-Hummel's hips, bringing down yet another Sutherland, a missile streaming from an RPM lashed out, smashing into the side of one of the aforementioned tanks, punching through the armor and detonating inside the machine to turn it into a large fireball.

_"Hell yeah! We're doing it!"_

_"Less talking, more shooting!"_

Anatoly would have shared in their excitement, but a few bullets suddenly smacked into the ground around him, and he spun to face two more Sutherlands speeding towards him, firing their rifles wildly.

'Amatuers.' he thought to himself as he brought the cannons around on them. 'Wait, what am I saying? I hardly know what I'M doing!'

"Here's hoping..." he muttered, depressing the trigger buttons and crossing his fingers.

The first shell lashed out, catching the left Sutherland in the leg, sending it toppling to the ground, ejecting the cockpit as it did so. Before he could celebrate, however, his second shell went wide, catching the second Britannian machine in the arm, at least disarming it and spinning it around. Before the enemy could use their Slash Harken, Anatoly instinctively triggered the machine guns, spraying down the Knightmare until it collapsed. There was no eject this time. Likely because he'd ruined the mechanism.

He spun around to find the infantry mopping up the last two Sutherlands with more missiles and doing the same to the tanks and any infantry who poured forth from them. Even though the stupid grunt on the rifle had botched up the entire ambush, the Russians had managed to win, beating down this convoy.

Anatoly keyed the radio, still set to the infantry's frequency. "We got any casualties?"

_"Just the idiot on the rifle. A Sutherland got lucky and blew off his head. His partner's still alive, though, just took some shrapnel in the arm. We lost the gun too, though."_

_"We can worry about that later. Grab his tags and anything else you can salvage off of him and let's get moving. They'll have had more than enough time to call for quick deployment troops. The Britannians'll be on us soon."_

With one last resentful and hate filled look at the still smoking metal corpses of his foes, Anatoly spat onto the floor of his cockpit, since he couldn't do it on his kills like he wanted. 'At least it wasn't too bad. As long as the line holds, we should be able to push them back. Eventually.'

* * *

The Yakutsk Defensive Line fell later that week. The Knight of Seven Suzaku Kururugi penetrated and destroyed the Commonwealth's strongest fortress, known as the Chest of Peter. With this turn of events, the Russian line collapsed upon itself as Britannian forces poured through the gap, slaughtering thousands of soldiers.

With this crucial defense broken, the Commonwealth pulled all their soldiers back more than seventeen-hundred miles across the Siberian tundra, supporting the massive retreat with what air and artillery support they could. Thousands more died in the attempt, and several cities that had once held firm Commonwealth forces were swiftly occupied by Britannian forces.

The Russian army finally regrouped at Yekaterinburg and Salekhard, the only two cities that held safe passage through the Ural Mountains.

A total of twenty thousand soldiers were killed in the forced march. Seventy thousand were wounded. Forty thousand more died of illness and grievous wounds after reaching their destinations.

A total of twenty-two hundred Russian Commonwealth infantrymen, pilots and engineers were unaccounted for at the end. They were all marked KIA. Seventeen hundred of them are still alive and trapped behind enemy lines.

Russian casualties have now stretched up into four-hundred thousand men and machines lost. All Britannian occupied space to the east of the Ural Mountains has been declared Area 25, and plans for colonization are already underway, with the subduing of the local Twenty-Fives on the top of the list.

Warrant Officer Mikhail Ryberskay and Private Anatoly Vyaschelev were among the soldiers left behind, and are both listed as KIA along with their respective units.

At the same time, in the Britannian colony known as Area 11, one million Zeros were banished from its shores.

* * *

**_Russian Dictionary_**

Svoloch: loosely translated, it is the equivalent of 'son of a bitch.'

Da: yes

Spasiba: thank you


	3. Regroup at Rally Point Oblivion

(First, thanks to those who have reviewed!

Stupid: I'm aware of what we discussed before, but please don't put it into your review. You're just spoiling it for people.

Vash: I'm not quite sure what those words mean. Hard to find a Russian to English dictionary, or vise-versa, that doesn't involve Cyrillic. Although I am thankful for your input!)

**Code Geass: Rise of the Greens**

_Chapter 3: Regroup at Rally Point Oblivion_

*

"Quantity has a quality all its own."

-Ioseb Besarionis dze Jugashvili AKA Joseph Stalin, famous arms developer and designer of the AS-21

*

Salekhard Defensive Line

The weather this far north was bitter and hard. The cold, tearing winds took and took and took some more, howling their eternal wrath and smashing it down against all in their path, whether they wanted to listen or not. The hail and frost would skin alive anyone out here caught off guard, and the small Britannian scouting party found themselves to be just that. Caught out in the wilds of Area 25 without even a tent to pitch in the hope of staving off even a portion of winter's wrath.

_"Bloody hell! Why would Prince Schneizel even want this place? Only things that are here is snow, ice, more snow, lots of villages and, oh yeah, more snow!"_

The Britannian squad leader, a grizzled sergeant who was fully aware that he would be going nowhere up in the chain of command with his inglorious lineage, peered back at the three other scouts were trying, and failing apparently, to find shelter here in this stand of trees.

"We do what we're asked, and demand nothing more than what we're given. So shut your traps before I actually come over there and do it for you."

They were forced to use their radios to communicate even this small distance, so hard was the wind blowing at their camouflaged jackets. Each man held a sniper rifle that he needed to keep safe, and a laser designator to help the artillery and air support actually find something worthwhile to bomb. Winter had come with a vengeance on the Britannian's heads on their march towards Moscow, and it didn't look to be letting up anytime soon, either. Damned Twenty-Fives were all too used to this kind of weather, though, and used it to their advantage far more than command would have liked.

_"Look, no offense sarge, but what are we out here fighting for anyway? The Emperor? He wouldn't care if we lived or died at all! Britannia? So it gets another piece of territory! We're already the most powerful nation in the world! Who the hell would stand up to us?"_

_"Apparently, Zero would."_

"I think you know the rules, trooper. Anyone caught saying that name in anything less than an insulting manner is to be incarcerated. But I'll let it slide for now, since you've already done enough to have yourself executed."

No response. The only thing that came back at the sergeant was the howl of the wind.

"Trooper? Mac? James? What the bloody hell is-"

The sergeant's words literally died on his lips as indescribable pain suddenly lanced out from his back, forcing its way in, invading his body until the point of such agony penetrated his chest, staining his jacket white and standing out as one of the few splotches of color in the winter landscape.

As the Britannian died, the Russian soldier pulled his knife back out, flicking the blade towards the snow to get some of the blood off, wiping the rest off against the corpse. Third scouting party they'd found today. In a war where neither side really cared about their individual soldiers, who would really win?

He let out another puff of his cigarette, standing with his squad mates, who were finishing with their targets, and they all moved on to the next location.

* * *

The Siberian Wastes

Southeast Russia

Many would consider conducting a march across the treacherous wastes of Russia to be insane even when the proper precautions were taken. All the soldiers had heard the radio, heard just how many men had died trying the same task they were about to attempt. The Commonwealth had killed off more of its own troopers than the Britannians had when they'd broken the Yakutsk blockade.

And yet, twenty footsoldiers and a Knightmare pilot were about to try the same thing.

"We have to move through the southern part of the rodina, hitting up Chita and Irkutsk on the way. If I'm right, the Britannians will have headed straight to the west, ignoring most of the villages and small towns along the way. Therefore, if they only occupied cities, we might be able to root out Commonwealth survivors and take them west with us."

Warrant Officer Ryberskay had to admit, even thought he'd drawn it himself, it was far from a foolproof plan, especially the part of what they would do after they gathered these soldiers and civilians together in one place.

Private Vyaschelev pointed out something for himself, however. Being a pilot in an armored division, he technically wasn't under an infnatry commander's jurisdiction. That still wasn't an excuse to invite insubordination, however.

"Well, what would happen if we made our final destination Nizhnevartovsk? If memory serves, there's an old artillery base there we can regroup at. Then we push through the Britannian lines from behind." The Knightmare pilot looked up, his eyes hopeful.

Another soldier piped up here, tracing a course with his finger. "Krasnoyarsk has a large armored depot, full to the brim with Panzer-Hummels, tanks, anti-frame vehicles and other weapons we might need. Why not try for there?"

A third soldier pushed him aside, saying "Chyort, forget that! Those Britannian mudaks will have already cleaned out such a tempting target. Look, I happen to know of a hidden supply dump underneath the town of Tomsk. We head for there, collect the supplies, and move, in and out in less than six hours."

"And what makes you think the Brits wouldn't have gotten there already?"

"ENOUGH!"

Ryberskay's bellow sounded ear-splitting in the small shack that the soldiers were in. They were about twelve miles east of the shores of Lake Baikal, the largest one in Russia, in what must have, fifty years ago, been a cozy little house.

The warrant officer swung his arms around quickly, making all the soldiers lean back as he shooed them away from the map. "When you idiots have gone ahead and pulled your heads out of each others' asses, we need to AGREE on a SINGLE plan. What we have is NOT a plan, but half a dozen fragments that don't make ANY sense by themselves!"

The bestubbled soldier finished his rant, panting heavily as he stared down his subordinates. Every single soldier in that shack had leaned back, away from the raving man, attempting to not incite further anger, and they were now all staring wide-eyed at Ryberskay. The squad leader let out a sigh, beckoning his soldiers forward again as he returned to the map stretched out on the crate in front of him.

"There is a positive here. The ideas you all have can be sewn together on our route through the south. The cities and towns all have weapons depots along the route we'll need to take to reach the Nizhnevartovsk artillery base. Of course, the largest areas will most likely be taken by the Britannians. Therefore, we will require two things in order to force our way through. More troops and more weapons. The bad news is that in order to gain these two objectives, we need to go straight into the same place we need these things to breach."

A recurring loop of need. The troops and supplies they needed to fight their way into the cities were inside the cities themselves. Commonwealth intelligence had never figured that Russian troops would need to battle their way into their own fortifications.

The hut was quiet for a few minutes as each soldier mulled it over to himself, silently, attempting to see another way to go about it. No luck. Twenty men, by themselves with almost no supplies and machines, were not going to survive to reach friendly lines.

All eyes swiveled down to look at the map, at the tiny, almost insignificant dot that represented the town of Chita. The nearest civilization to their position.

The silence reigned.

* * *

Chita, Siberia

Twenty-one Kilometres South

Chita was a small town, right on the very edge of known Russian territory. Any closer to the border, and it wold be a part of the region known as Mongolia, a country quietly contested over between Russia and the Chinese Federation.

Currently, the squad of soldiers who had decided to seek shelter there were rethinking the wisdom of such an action. Eighty percent of their country had fallen to enemy hands, and if they were discovered at all on this side of the fighting, they would all be shot.

The Master Sergeant in charge of the fifty or sixty infantrymen under his command, mostly because all other senior officers had been killed in the retreat, was sitting in one of the many vacant houses on the outskirts of the town, listening to a battered old radio that barely picked up any kind of signal through the blizzard.

_"And, in international news, Britannian diplomats have successfully managed to negotiate a peace treaty with members of the nation of France, enacting a withdrawal of imperial troops from the country. The French people have celebrated the graciousness of Prince Schneizel in allowing them to talk out the conflict, and guerrilla attacks on Britannian installations have been sworn to stop."_

With a snarl, the Commonwealth officer smacked the radio off the table he was leaning on, grumbling curses under his breath. Cowards! Stopping a fight for liberation in order to sit down and talk one out? Preposterous! Ignoble! Why, the very thought sent chills of rage down his spine!

"Not something to be proud of, eh Master Sergeant?"

The soldier in question snapped his gaze up to his subordinate, another sergeant without the additional pin on his chevrons to designate him any higher than the basic level. The master sergeant sighed as he slumped, saying "Indeed. The French have wormed their way out of this war, but have also spared themselves the vengeance of the EU. The cowards remain under Britannian control, and the Germans are too busy to punish them! It disgusts me to no end."

The sergeant nodded as well, replacing the radio before stepping over to his superior and saying "We may not have the manpower to launch an attack at all, but we still know the land. We can try-"

"And do what? Push through Britannian lines? Assault a city? What CAN we do? There's no-"

The master sergeant was interrupted rather abruptly as the door slammed shut down on the bottom floor, and excited voices and pounding boots signaled a scout returning with what must be exciting news. Sure enough, the door rattled with the assailing of a pounding fist, and a voice yelled "Master Sergeant! Master Sergeant! Reinforcements!"

"What?!" cried both sergeants, each rising and leaping towards the door, each one eager to investigate this impossibility.

* * *

In the end, it was more like reinforcements for Warrant Officer Ryberskay than for the troops in the town. Because there was no way in hell that this lunatic was getting these soldiers without a fight.

"Master Sergeant, what you don't seem to understand is that I'm making this an ORDER. And if you don't comply, I can just shoot you and put your subordinate under me."

The man spluttered at the bluntness of the Warrant Officer, standing a little bit straighter as he declared "Sir, I apologize greatly for my disrespect, but I feel I must, erm..."

"Knock that crap off!" snarled Ryberskay as he turned away from the operation he was overseeing. "Save it for the parade ground when a general walks by! This is war, soldier, and in war, every second counts! Do you want to be saluting for five seconds when it only takes one for a sniper to kill you?"

Here, Ryberskay brought his arm around in a backhanded slap, knocking the Master Sergeant to the ground. "Show some backbone! Instead of cowering here in this village with your men, you could have used the opportunity to push forward and gather more soldiers on the run! That's what we're doing here! That's why you're coming with us!"

"Y-yessir!"

The master sergeant stood up once again, half-saluted, saw the warrant officer's fist form once more, thought better of it and asked "Is there anything you need of me, sir?"

Ryberskay lowered his hand again, brushing off a patch of his long, wool jacket. Commonwealth soldiers were all assigned dark green greatcoats, usually made to blend in with the forests of summer Russia. However, in winter the army simply weighed buying a few million camouflage coats against the number of soldiers who might possibly be killed for being exposed, and decided not to purchase them after all. Such was the corruption of the bureaucracy.

"First, I need to know who my second in command is. Name and rank, soldier!"

"Ah, yessir! Master Sergeant Yuri Kasinov, sir!"

"Good. Oh, and Kasinov?"

"Yessir?"

"Knock off the parade ground routine before I hit you again."

* * *

Overall, it took roughly three hours to round up the civilians in town and inform them that relocation was key. If the soldiers were to stay one step ahead of the Britannians, they could not leave any witnesses behind them and they needed to keep the Russian people safe. Too many had already fallen under the conqueror's rule.

An old truck depot and gas station, both unused for years as there was nowhere nearby for the civilians to drive to, would be key in this regard. There were almost a thousand civilians to transport, and every vehicle in town, military and civilian, was needed to move on. People and supplies flooded into the vehicles, pushed on as they were by the infantrymen who were helping out with the evacuation.

Anatoly cruised around in the Panzer-Hummel, skirting around cars, civilians with their arms full and soldiers moving to gather more supplies, watching the chaos. Such a large convoy would need so much food and water to live, and fuel to operate the vehicles. What exactly was Ryberskay up to, gathering so many people that it would endanger the safety of them?


	4. Uninvited Invaders

(A little snippet to my latest reviewer gouald: Yes, I was indeed trying to replicate, to a degree, the events of WWII, when Germany blitzed into Russia. Once the defensive line in Poland fell, there was very little to slow the German tanks until they reached the meatgrinder of Stalingrad. I attempted to replicate a similar effect, except that, with advanced machines like Knightmares in play, this sort of battle would cause even larger casualties.)

**Code Geass: Rise of the Greens**

_Chapter 4: Uninvited Invaders_

Can a nation be free if it oppresses other nations? It cannot.

-Vladimir Lenin, before his assassination in 1904

The Chinese Federation

The Vermilion Forbidden City

En Route to the Palace

Lelouch Lamperouge would have preferred to take this trip in a casual vehicle. Perhaps a nice, ordinary taxi, or in the sidecar of Rival's bike. Even a subway would do. Unfortunately, because of his status, demeanor and need for secrecy, Zero had expensive tastes, and instead asked to organize a ride to Empress Tianzi's wedding reception in a Chinese gunship, in order to throw off the enemy. And so, a little bit of hard currency, a few flirts from some very pretty eyes from the ranks of the Black Knights, and Zero had his proffered method of travel.

As the aircraft buzzed over the Vermilion Forbidden City, the leader of the Black Knight peered out at the busy, lit streets below. China was an enormous place, home to almost a solid third of the world's population. Not even Britannian or Russia could attest to such a feat, and the Commonwealth were spread out over land at least twice as large, and the Empire encompassed two whole continents.

Such a big place.

Such a busy place.

Such an obvious place for the Order to hide.

There were two main reasons why Lelouch had picked the Chinese Federation, and not the Euro Universe, as his target for alliance. One of them, obviously, was that C.C. had told him that the Order were in the Chinese Federation. They would not, could not, operate without trace. It was virtually impossible, and using this country's vast resources would help him track them down.

Number two was their military strength and government status. While a self-proclaimed federation of nations, the Chinese ruled it more in the style of the Britannians, and with the High Eunuchs calling the shots with the young Empress as a figurehead, they could do whatever they wanted with that power.

It needed to stop. The tyranny would need to be weeded out and made apparent to the public.

The EU, however, was far too reasonable with their people. With the exception of Russia, the citizens of the Euro Universe had some of the best human rights in the world. The commoners had say with their higher ups, elected their leaders, voted on different issues and mostly volunteered for the military. They even cared about others, as well, instead of sticking their heads up their asses and thinking only for themselves. Humanitarian aid was sent down to Africa all the time to help with the various sicknesses, starvation, natural disasters, poverty and civil war damage that happened all the time. The EU had just managed to crack into settling the different cultural disputes in Central Africa when Britannia had invaded.

Now, the war had cut the EU into pieces. The French had become another piece of the Empire in everything save name. Russia was on the verge of being lost under Britannian boots. Germany, Sweden, Italy, the British Isles, and many of the smaller eastern European countries, with much assistance from its larger brothers and mercenaries, were the only countries able to resist encroachment of any kind.

While the EU, having owned the most territory before being stomped into the ground, also had the largest military in the world, it would have been too hard to try and slip the Black Knights into leadership. If this had been some sort of cheesy television program, the Euro Universe would have been the stereotypical 'good guys' of the story.

No longer. Schneizel's superior tactics and Britannia's advanced technology had proven to be the winning factor against the EU's far larger numbers. Troop estimates at the beginning of the invasion had been seven million Britannians going up against well over forty million Europeans. Many had questioned the wisdom of such a move, but the tactical master prince had proven himself up to the task, and had whittled the EU down to less than half of their troop strength either by tactical conquest or by 'diplomatic agreements' and forced the others to take up the defensive.

Zero had already ruled out the EU as a lost cause. But Lelouch hoped that it had the strength to survive and regain its former territory. If there was one alliance that deserved to have a piece of the world, it was definitely the Europeans.

He turned to Kallen, saying _"Kallen. I seem to remember hearing about the Britannians making progress in the Commonwealth of Russia."_

The red-haired Guren pilot nodded, stretching her arms in the cramped interior of the gunship. "Yeah. They were bragging about it up and down every single news program that they could. Broke through the Russians' main defensive line. I think they were stalled outside of Moscow, though."

_"Then we can already consider Russia fallen. A shame, really. They had such large military potential. If only they actually cared about their soldiers."_

That was only Zero's opinion, however. Truthfully, Lelouch was thinking something quite different.

'We can only hope those proud legions can find a way to rally on their own. If they can free themselves, they will most definitely turn the tide of the war.'

* * *

Outside Krasnoyarsk

Undetected by the Britannians

_"I count six, maybe seven hardpoints within the city itself. The roads are watched by mechanized infantry. Tanks and Knightmares in the center and more infantry in the streets. They've really locked this place down."_

"Roger that. Good work, Three. Come on back."

The unit's new comms operator rubbed his eyes as he set down the long range radio-pack's receiver, biting his lip as he awaited Warrant Officer Ryberskay and Master Sergeant Kasinov's reactions to this turn of events.

Irkutsk and Bratsk had been, as predicted, Commonwealth holdouts, comprised of army survivors and the civilians who needed to be transported to safe haven. Fuel, supply and transport issues had been solved as soon as the convoy had reached Bratsk, a much larger town than the other two that they had passed thus far, and the camp behind them consisted of well over two-thousand civilians, and their ranks had been increased by over a hundred more soldiers.

Of course, this had come with definite drawbacks. Sickness plagued the camp, supplies were still extremely low, and most of the soldiers that had been picked up were former armor crew or Knightmare pilots who had no machines. The Britannians made targeting the enormous tanks and Panzer-Hummels a priority, and their snipers and aircraft had spared no machine on their raids. As of now, and still, the only soldier with a machine was Anatoly Vyaschelev.

Ryberskay rubbed his eyes, thinking it over in his mind as his infantry commander and second in command Kasinov stated "No way we can simply overwhelm them. They'll just overwhelm us back."

"Da, a truth," remarked Ryberskay as he brought his hand down, frowning before asking "What did the scouts report about the armor depot?"

The radio operator went over his written notes, searching until he found what he was looking for, passing it up to the warrant officer. "Depot's completely surrounded, sir. Four Sutherlands and five tanks."

Ryberskay's eyebrows rose into his padded helmet as his own eyes perused the paper, and he stated "But the prize is inside. Twenty Panzer-Hummels and forty tanks of various types. T-10s, SU-152s, T-3s, and plenty of trucks."

The warrant officer laughed, slapping the paper as he declared "This battle is already half over! The Britannians obviously haven't reached their command to airlift these machines out. We just need to reach the depot and we can crush the rats!"

But Kasinov had one last objection: "How?"

* * *

Anatoly had been out on patrol on the opposite side of of the convoy's campsite from the city, as he was deemed rather too valuable to simply keep in camp if the enemy were to attack, when he was called in by Ryberskay. As he dismounted outside of the radio tent, which had become the unofficial command center, he had no clue what was coming.

Until it hit him in the face.

"You want to WHAT?!"

Cue figurative whack in the face.

Ryberskay held up a map of the city, where various points were circled and labeled in red. "This point in the center is the motherload: more armored vehicles here than we'll find anywhere else this far south in the rodina. The only problem is that, with our current numbers, there's no way we can take on the armor."

Anatoly gritted his teeth as he snarled "I got that, sir. What I want to know is WHY do you insist on sending me on a suicide mission?"

Ryberskay folded the map, leaning back and saying "It's not suicide. We count six Sutherlands and nineteen tanks. A pilot like you can handle them, right? I saw you annihilate that column practically single-handed."

"I had NO CLUE what the hell I was doing! Chyort, sir, if you want me to die so badly, why don't you just execute me?"

Kasinov stepped forward, a TT-11 pistol gripped in his fingers as he leveled it at Anatoly's head, saying "That can be arranged, you insubordinate little mudak!"

Ryberskay stepped in here, however, forcing the master sergeant to lower his gun as he said "It's not suicide. You don't even have to destroy them all. Just stay alive and keep fighting them while some of our riflemen sneak the pilots around to the depot. Once we have the machines, the Britannians won't stand a chance."

"So...I'm a distraction?"

"Just until we can get the Knightmares and tanks running sergeant, da."

Anatoly weighed the possibilities in his mind. As long as he didn't have to destroy every single enemy on the field, as long as he could hang back and shell them, he would be fine. Sutherland assault rifles at that range wouldn't be able to hit him very well, and he could knock them off with the cannons. There were two things to watch out for, though, those being the tanks and the civilians. If he could-

Waitwaitwaitwait! Rewind!

Anatoly's head snapped up as he realized the rank tacked onto the end of the statement. Kasinov seemed just as shocked as the pilot, and both of the them declared "SERGEANT?!"

Ryberskay waved them down, declaring "It is my decision! As a Warrant Officer, I outrank everyone else here! We need someone to organize the armored units out there once they mount up. And no pilot we have is above the rank of private, so I chose the one who has proven himself!"

"I don't even know what the hell I'm doing out there!" Anatoly declared, a hand gesturing back at the Panzer-Hummel, and Kasinov agreed "Shouldn't we wait until we have someone who is able to perform their job without guessing?"

"War IS a guessing game, Kasinov. We guess how the enemy will move and hope that they aren't readying a trap to counter us. As for you, Vyaschelev, need I remind you that this is NOT debatable? You may not realize what you are doing, but your body still remembers and reacts. Once your memories come back to you, that self-doubt will be gone. Now, BOTH of you are dismissed! Go! Attend to the assignments I have given you while I try and figure out how to sew this operation together!"

* * *

2 hours Later

Now that he'd had time to view the city of Krasnoyarsk for himself, Anatoly had returned to his previous conclusion: this was indeed a suicide mission.

Not only were those Knightmares and tanks formidable enough, but all those newly built security checkpoints around the city seemed a threat as well, one that the Warrant Officer couldn't have bothered to tell to his armor commander. APCs, plenty of infantry. Of course, the Commonwealth men were supposed to fight through them on the way through to the depot, but STILL, any one of them could get off a lucky shot with a missile.

Letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, Anatoly consulted his watch again. Five minutes left.

It had to be one of the worst situations of his life, he was sure of it. Or, at least, as sure as he could be without knowing the rest of his life. To rush into a battle, not knowing if you would survive, not even remembering anything about your past except your name. Piloting a weapon you didn't even remember.

His hand ran up to the many scratch marks on the inside of his cockpit. He'd discovered the kill marks on the first day of working with Ryberskay, and counted them up. Twenty-nine Knightmares. He'd added the four Sutherlands he'd already knocked out to the tally, and it now totaled up to thirty-three kills. He must've been an extremely skilled pilot, a killer in his own right, a master of the Knightmare frame.

If only that man was here, right now, instead of his shadow. A handful of Knightmares and a few armored squads wouldn't have phased him at all. But, he wasn't here, and Anatoly had to sit in his place, in his machine, and do his job.

He'd often wondered what kind of man he'd been. Had he been a kind one, conscripted against his will but finding his place in life nonetheless? Or had he been cold, heartless, and had eagerly enlisted simply to kill? Anatoly wasn't sure he wanted to know. Wasn't sure if he wanted more information than what he already knew.

Name, rank, unit.

That was it. That was all he remembered about himself. He knew about the war, the Britannians, the cities, everything around him, but he couldn't remember a single damned thing about himself. It was like someone had simply wiped his history from his own brain...

_"Vyaschelev? Are you in position?"_

'Chyort! That's Ryberskay! It must be time!'

He reached over, quickly, and keyed the radio, replying "Da, sir. I'm ready to go!"

_"Good. Units one and two, designation Bogeyman and Phantom are ready to go. Your future units will be known as Beartrap and Werewolf. Confirm."_

"Roger, I confirm. Bogeyman and Phantom on support, Beartrap and Werewolf moving to target."

_"Da. Commence the attack."_

"Roger. Commencing."

Anatoly moved his hand back to its control yoke, bringing up the gunsights on his monitor to have them hover over his targets. He would prefer to first shoot at the Knightmares, but he needed to open a hole for the infantry to get through. A hundred soldiers couldn't just sneak into a city, and the hardpoints needed to be dealt with anyway.

With two pulls of the triggers, the cannons boomed, and two security tents went up in smoke, blowing apart the soldiers stationed inside of them. Swiftly, Anatoly shifted his arm, blasting two turrets to pieces. The Britannians were beginning to react now, but he knew he could falter. He shot another round into the side of an APC, turning it into a fireball, as his second round smacked into a patrolling tank, sending it rolling to a halt as it was disabled.

Now that the distraction was underway, Anatoly knew he had little time, and switched his frequency to contact the infantry.

"Bogeyman, Phantom, the way is clear. I'm moving in to provide diversionary tactics. Give it a fifteen count before moving to the target."

_"Da. Standing by until fifteen count."_

As Anatoly returned his hand to the yoke, he floored the accelerators, speeding towards the city with as much swiftness as possible. Already, the Britannian tanks were swiveling around and getting a bead on him, and he couldn't let a single shot connect.

'I may just be playing dress-up in my former glory, but I know that I can definitely keep those soldiers safe. Come and get me, mudaks!'

* * *

With the security areas down and the Panzer-Hummel drawing fire away from all other happenings in town, units Bogeyman and Phantom were clear to move in.

But where were they?

The civilians were all trying to escape the conflict on the other side of the city, and took shelter in whatever sturdy building they could find. As such, the streets were unnaturally clear of any and all life. Except...

Just outside where the checkpoints had been, the ground shifted, the snow growing larger and larger in a legion of small patches. As these patches straightened, the frost fell away, exposing dark green wool coats and assault rifles gripped in gloved hands. White slid off of brown steel helmets to expose the roaring bear head symbol on each and every Commonwealth forehead, attached to the steel and painted over with green.

The infantrymen stood from their hidden positions, moving forward and securing the wreckage and the edge of town. When it was deemed that there were no more hostiles, they gestured to the pilots and crewmen, who all scrambled forward, clumsily clutching pistols, assault rifles and shotguns, not as experienced as the footmen at fighting as an individual.

Bogeyman and Phantom groups split up here. The former was escorting Beartrap, while the latter was in charge of Werewolf. These pilots were of the utmost importance to seize the vehicles in the depot, and even the loss of one could be a catastrophe.

Bogeyman took the alleyways, trying to cut around the buildings in a swerving pattern to loop around to the compound, while Phantom stuck to the streets. The thinking was that if one group blitzed their way forward and made sure the streets and machines were all secure, then the other group could move in without any delay, abandoning stealth to favor speed.

_"This is Bogeyman, we're moving through."_

_"Phantom here. Roger that. We've seen nothing but a killed tank here."_

_"Keep on your toes, Phantom. You're at the most risk out there."_

_"We can handle it, Bogeyman. Out."_

_

* * *

_The Britannians were smart, holding their tanks back to fire from the distance they were at. Their armor wasn't even close to strong enough to stop a Sutherland bullet, much less the far larger Panzer-Hummel's cannon rounds. Instead, the Sutherlands were swarming him, all six of them working in concert to weave around him and fire bursts of assault rifle bullets at him. Anatoly tried his best to fight back, but his gunsights couldn't go in opposite directions, so he needed to instead keep his focus on dodging and firing ahead of him.

A row of vaulting snow told of another burst coming at him, and he swiveled away, bringing the offending Sutherland into view. Activating his secondary gunsights, Anatoly triggered the machine guns, and fired a long six second burst. All but the last two seconds worth of fire caught the Knightmare, and the machine crumpled before ejecting its cockpit.

Five left.

A tank round smashed his the side of his machine, but luckily ricocheted before it actually did any damage more than a dent. Anatoly spun around, hitting the accelerators to avoid the fire from another Sutherland and fired a quick cannon shot at another Knightmare trying to move in for the kill. It missed as that Sutherland also moved aside.

'Chyort! Hurry it up, boys!'

* * *

Phantom had reached its objective.

The infantrymen had been forced to intimidate a few civilians back into their homes in order to keep them out of the way, and then they'd been required to gun down the Britannian infantry, about ten or so, guarding the depot, but half of the pilots that were needed had arrived. The rest would come with Bogeyman.

_"Alright! Werewolf is in position and is commandeering the machines! Bogeyman, you have a go to bring Beartrap forward!"_

Already, tank hatches were being thrown open, Panzer-Hummels were extending their cockpits, and the pilots had abandoned their bulky weapons in favor of warfare they knew. It would be no time at all until the heavy support was ready to roll out, and Vyaschelev sounded as though he needed the help.

_"All Knightmare frames, move out and dispatch the enemy Sutherlands! All tanks, eliminate the Britannian armor!"_

The order, of course, came from Warrant Officer Ryberskay from the command tent, as Sergeant Vyaschelev had no idea when his new armored forces would be ready to go.

Ten Panzer-Hummels were ready to go, and five tanks had enough men to be crewed. Two of them were the heavy T-10s, built as mainline battle tanks after the First Pacific War. They were able to beat out their lighter, older cousins, the T-3s, which were made to destroy the clumsy clunkers produced by the Britannians during the Great Overland War of 1901. None of the SU-152s, vehicles made from the ground up to destroy enemy Knightmares, were ready to go, however, and the task of eliminating the enemy Sutherlands fell to the Panzer-Hummels.

The frames in question quickly sped down the streets of Krasnoyarsk, moving for the flank to avoid the enemy tanks while the tanks, heavy and medium caliber, went straight for the kill on the enemy armor. The two groups struck at the same time, the tanks unloading their enormous shells into the enemy rear, sending Britannian tank after Britannian tank brewing up. The panicked invaders attempted to swing their guns around to engage the Commonwealth soldiers, but all eighteen remaining tanks were obliterated without a second thought.

The same happened to the Knightmares. The Panzer-Hummels had the advantage of extreme range to work with, and didn't have to close with their target like the Sutherlands did. Cannon after cannon fired, and each Britannian Knightmare fell, like dominoes, the cockpits ejecting and landing in the snow.

They had won. The battle for Krasnoyarsk was over.

* * *

Beartrap and Bogeyman reached the yard after that, and the tanks crews grabbed the heaviest pieces of armor they could find. Unfortunately, there was the problem of too many vehicles to crew, and not enough crewmen to drive them. Overall, however, the looted vehicles totaled up to all twenty panzer-Hummels, ten T-10 heavy tanks and five SU-150 frame destroyers.

"Leave the T-3s," Sergeant Vyaschelev had said as he overlooked the appropriation of the armored vehicles. "They're relics. They won't do us any good against the Britannian machines."

Bogeyman and Werewolf, still totaling twenty men each, had searched through the town and the snowdrifts where the battle had occurred, rounding up the Britannian soldiers. Overall, sixty three Britannians came quietly, and twenty more were shot down. Not a single Russian was killed in the process.

Anatoly, dismounted from his machine, watched the Britannians being filed into the yard, all with their hands up. How would they transport all of these prisoners? The trucks were going to come in handy, and with the new armored vehicles freeing up space in the convoy, they could carry more supplies. But these many prisoners?

"Stand aside, Vyaschelev."

Anatoly looked up to find Kasinov standing behind him, pistol in hand and hanging limply in his grasp.

"Master Sergeant?"

"Just do it, Sergeant. Stand aside."

"What are you going to do?"

"What needs to be done. Stand. Down."

Anatoly looked down at the pistol in the Master Sergeant's hand, then glanced over at the infantrymen surrounding the Britannians. The invaders looked so very scared, and the Commonwealth men seemed ready to tear into them at any minute.

"No mercy was shown to our comrades at Yakutsk, or along the line of the forced march. No mercy will be show here. Sergeant, I am ordering you, for the last time, to stand aside."

Anatoly looked back at Kasinov, swallowing lightly as the pistol was leveled at him. He hesitated, looking the gun straight down the barrel before looking back up at Kasinov's cold, empty eyes.

"This isn't right." It was the last thing he said in his defense as he stepped to the side.

"No, its not. But it's what needs to be done."

Kasinov's paper thin excuse didn't convince Anatoly even before the infantry commander stepped up to a Britannian and shot him square in the head. As the foreigner collapsed to ground, the master sergeant declared "Kill them all!"

As the sound of weapons fire opened up and the Britannians began screaming as they fell, Anatoly didn't look back. He just continued to walk back towards his Knightmare, contemplating whether or not his true self would have turned around and participated in the slaughter.

* * *

(A quick little note about the tanks: With the exception of the T-3, based off of the Soviet T-34, both of the above named tanks are real world vehicles developed in WWII. They were mainly designed to take on German Panzers, Tigers and Panthers, but never got the chance to be deployed. So, working in the timeframe and Russia's technology level, I felt that it was time to let these machines have their chance.)


End file.

Code Geass, Adventure, Sci-Fi