"Prince Clovis, he's here." The sergeant saluted as he stepped aside, revealing a young man with light brown hair and sharp forest-green eyes, clad in the standard-issue gray military uniform of the Holy Britannian Empire.
Black body armor covered his chest, polished but unadorned.
It was the kind of uniform meant for soldiers, cannon fodder, or the fresh cadets too green to know their place.
He stood in sharp contrast to Prince Clovis, who wore a tailored aristocrat's outfit—flamboyant, embroidered with gold, oozing decadence and self-importance.
The difference in status between them was painfully obvious, like a noble inspecting a servant who'd dared to breathe the same air.
"Private Suzaku," Clovis began, his tone light, almost conversational, as if they were about to talk about the weather. He didn't even look at the man directly at first—too busy picking up the fine porcelain cup from his desk, swirling the dark liquid inside as if the conversation was just a formality. "There's something that's always made me doubt you."
He finally looked up, his pale eyes curious, mildly entertained.
"Why would you want to work for us?"
Suzaku stiffened slightly, eyes lowering to the floor as he responded with controlled politeness, "I don't understand, Prince Clovis."
Clovis gave a small smile, the kind that didn't reach his eyes. He took a sip of the coffee, frowned faintly, and dropped the cup back onto the saucer with a soft clink.
"It's bitter," he said flatly, then leaned forward in his seat. "Just like lies. Just like being treated like a fool, Private Suzaku. It leaves a nasty taste in the mouth, wouldn't you agree?"
The sergeant beside Suzaku, already fuming, took that as his cue.
"You piece of shit—!"
With a snarl, he slammed his boot into Suzaku's leg, a harsh thud cracking through the room. Suzaku grunted, his body collapsing to one knee as pain flared up his side.
"Argh...!"
The prince made no move to stop him, no flicker of concern on his face.
"How dare you lie to Prince Clovis?!" the sergeant shouted, spittle flying from his mouth as he glared down at the kneeling Eleven like he was lower than dogshit.
Clovis finally blinked, setting down the coffee cup with deliberate calmness.
"That's enough."
His voice was smooth, quiet—but absolute.
"Sergeant Francis, leave us."
The sergeant hesitated. He looked like he wanted to say something—wanted to protest leaving an Eleven alone with a royal prince—but he knew better.
"But, Prince Clovis—"
Clovis turned his gaze on him, expression now tinged with irritation.
"Do you want me to say it a second time?"
That shut him up.
Sergeant Francis straightened, saluted stiffly, then turned on his heel and marched out. But not before throwing Suzaku a glare that promised pain.
The door clicked shut.
Now it was just the two of them.
Clovis stood and walked around the desk, his hands behind his back as he approached the kneeling boy. His footsteps were soft on the floor, like a predator circling prey.
"Well then, Suzaku Kururugi..."
His voice dropped a little, almost intimate.
"Let's be honest, shall we?"
"Why do you want to work for us?"
His eyes narrowed, searching Suzaku's face for the tiniest crack in his composure.
"You, a proud Japanese—an Eleven—choosing to serve Britannia? The Empire that stole your country, butchered your people, turned your cities into ghettos? You should want our heads on pikes."
A pause.
"So tell me—why are you really here?"
Clovis's smile returned, colder this time.
"I want to serve Britannia, Prince Clovis," Suzaku Kururugi said, his voice steady as he lowered his head in a deep bow.
Prince Clovis tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with amusement at the declaration.
"Yes... to serve us," he echoed mockingly, his voice laced with sarcasm and condescension.
"The son of Japan's former Prime Minister, reduced to a common dog for the empire. If word gets out..." He let out a soft, delighted chuckle. "How many resistance groups will crumble? How many of your fellow Elevens will lose the last shred of hope, knowing even their 'backbone' has folded... licking the boots of their conquerors?"
He raised one foot and held it out in front of Suzaku. The polished leather gleamed under the chandelier's light.
"Go on. Lick it."
Suzaku looked up, his face unreadable—no defiance, no shame, no hatred.
Just hollow acceptance. He stepped forward slowly, his movements stiff but deliberate, and then leaned in, tongue out, prepared to obey.
He never made it.
Without a moment's hesitation, Clovis kicked him hard across the face.
Suzaku's head snapped sideways as he collapsed onto the floor, his cheek slamming into the marble with a sickening thud.
Blood smeared the ground as it oozed from his lip and brow.
Clovis stared at him with thinly veiled disgust.
"Boring," he muttered.
It was boring.
No resistance. No reaction. Just a broken doll doing whatever he was told. There was no fire, no rebellion left in him—just a corpse in a soldier's uniform, waiting to be used.
"I have no interest in speaking to you again, Suzaku Kururugi," Clovis said with venomous finality. "From this moment on, you will serve as my personal bodyguard. Not because I trust you—no, quite the opposite."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"When I die, you will be blamed for it. The people will scream your name in hate. They'll curse Elevens. They'll burn your flag. Thousands will die in your name. All because you weren't good enough."
He straightened his posture, brushing invisible dust from his pristine sleeve.
"So do your best, Suzaku. Protect me like your worthless life depends on it. Keep my live above everyone else, even when you don't want to. Because your suffering serves us more than my death ever could."
"Farewell. I hope you enjoy your new position," he said with a smirk, already walking away.
Suzaku lay still for a moment, the metallic taste of blood thick on his tongue.
Then, slowly, he stood. He wiped his mouth, wiped the blood off his forehead, and followed after Prince Clovis without a word—like a dog silently accepting its leash.
Prince Clovis let out a long, disappointed sigh as he stared at the man in front of him. "You're the worst kind of person I've ever had the displeasure of meeting, Suzaku Kururugi."
Suzaku said nothing. Not a single word left his lips.
Clovis wasn't surprised. The silence was typical. Spineless little shit.
No wonder so many people in his past life hated this bastard.
When it came to his own people—his fellow Elevens—Suzaku acted like a righteous pig, always mouthing off about morals, justice, honor, and other bullshit he couldn't back up.
But the second Britannia snapped its fingers? He turned into a pathetic, obedient mutt, wagging his tail and licking the boots of anyone above him.
He'd let Britannians spit in his face, mock him, humiliate him, and he'd just fucking take it—like a good little bitch.
But when an Eleven begged him to fight for their freedom? When his own people asked him to stand up for something real?
That's when he grew a fucking backbone.
That's when he suddenly became all "principled" and "duty-bound."
That's when he started talking back. That's when he became confrontational.
Fucking joke.
To Clovis, it was clear: Suzaku Kururugi wasn't driven by logic, ideals, or anything noble.
He was driven by some warped, contradictory mess of self-loathing, guilt, and denial that made him act like a total retard.
How the hell was anyone supposed to trust a guy like this?
You couldn't predict him. You couldn't reason with him. He'd bend over backwards for his enemies and kick his own people in the teeth just to feel morally superior.
Clovis hated that kind of disorder. That kind of hypocrisy.
Still, he didn't say another word. Not because he forgave it—but because even broken tools can be useful.
And Prince Clovis?
He never let a single piece on his board go to waste.