Code Geass: The Masquerade of Madness

Area 11: Britannia

The Castle Conference

Within the main castle where Britannia's nobles and military forces maintained their stranglehold over Japan, two concurrent meetings were taking place. While Cornelia convened with the other nobles in the eastern wing, a far more sinister assembly was occurring in a heavily secured conference room deep within the castle's bowels. The attendance was deliberately limited—only the most trusted and dangerous individuals had been invited to witness what was about to unfold.

Hugo Strange stood near the conference table, his tall, gaunt frame casting an ominous shadow across the room. Once Britannia's most brilliant psychiatrist and criminal psychologist, Dr. Strange had been the architect of their "rehabilitation programs" for Japanese dissidents. His methods were revolutionary, his results unprecedented—until the day he discovered the true horror of what Britannia demanded. When he refused to continue his work on children, they destroyed his career, his reputation, and his sanity. Now, behind wire-rimmed spectacles, his eyes held the cold calculation of a man who had gazed too long into the abyss of human nature. His expertise in both psychology and genetic manipulation made him invaluable to their cause, though his methods had grown increasingly... creative since his fall from grace.

Dominating the wall was a massive screen displaying their weapons and technology coordinator, a man whose brilliance was matched only by his bitterness.

Two-Face appeared on the screen from his European base of operations. Harvey Dent had once been Britannia's most promising prosecutor, a man who believed in justice and order above all else. That was before the Britannian nobles he trusted set him up to take the fall for their war crimes. The acid that scarred half his face was meant to kill him, but it only transformed him into something far more dangerous—a man who understood that justice was nothing more than a coin flip in a world ruled by monsters. His legal mind now crafted the perfect crimes, while his knowledge of Britannian law made him untouchable. Currently stationed in a European country, he was conducting arms deals with Euro Britannia, playing both sides against each other with the precision of a master strategist.

Scarecrow shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his lanky frame draped in tattered clothing that had once been a respectable professor's attire. Dr. Jonathan Crane had been a brilliant fear researcher at Britannia's premier university, developing treatments for combat stress and trauma. But when his research proved that Britannian soldiers were suffering from massive psychological damage due to their atrocities, the government buried his work and destroyed his career. They exposed him to his own experimental fear toxins, leaving him a shell of his former self, consumed by an intimate understanding of terror. Now, the Scarecrow's mastery of fear made him the perfect operative for psychological warfare, his mind fractured but his intellect razor-sharp.

And there, in the center of it all, sat the orchestrator of this madness—The Joker.

He had once been someone else entirely, a Britannian citizen who had believed in their cause, who had served their empire faithfully. But empires built on cruelty and oppression have a way of consuming even their most loyal servants. The chemical bath that had bleached his skin white and turned his hair green hadn't been an accident—it had been a deliberate attempt to silence him when he discovered too much about Britannia's darkest secrets. Instead of killing him, it had birthed something far worse: a man who had learned to laugh at the cosmic joke of existence, who understood that sanity was just another lie told by those in power.

His purple suit was immaculate, his green hair perfectly styled, but his smile was the stuff of nightmares—too wide, too knowing, too full of malicious joy. Unlike his previous incarnation, this Joker wore no mask. His face was his mask, painted white by chemicals and twisted by madness into a permanent grin that spoke of horrors beyond comprehension.

Once everyone except Two-Face had taken their seats, the Joker began the meeting with his characteristic flair. "Well, well, well! Look what the cat dragged in!" His voice carried that distinctive blend of manic glee and underlying menace. "Ladies and gentlemen, freaks and geeks, welcome to the greatest show on Earth!" He gestured grandly toward the screen. "Harvey, my scarred friend, please tell me you're on a secure channel. I'd hate for the Britannian pigs to spoil our little party!"

Two-Face's damaged face split into a sardonic smile. "Good side says yes, bad side says kill anyone who tries to listen in. My encryption is military grade—I should know, I helped write the laws that govern it when I was still playing dress-up as a good little prosecutor."

"Excellent! Nothing like a little insider knowledge to spice up the evening!" The Joker clapped his hands together, the sound echoing through the chamber. "Now then, let's get down to business, shall we? Hugo, my dear doctor, please tell me you have some wonderfully twisted progress to report on our little pet project."

Hugo Strange rose from his chair, adjusting his spectacles with clinical precision. "The psychological conditioning experiments on our criminal test subjects have yielded... fascinating results." His voice carried the measured tone of a man discussing the weather rather than human experimentation. "However, we've encountered some unexpected complications."

The Joker's grin widened impossibly. "Oh, complications! How deliciously unpredictable! Do tell, Hugo. What's got our little lab rats all worked up?"

Strange retrieved a remote and switched the display, though Two-Face remained visible in a smaller window. The main screen showed a sterile laboratory hallway where scientists observed a humanoid figure walking with mechanical precision. The subject appeared normal at first glance, but something was fundamentally wrong with its movements—too fluid, too controlled, yet somehow desperate.

Then, without warning, the subject began clawing at its own face, screaming in a voice that was part human, part electronic distortion. Sparks flew as it tore through synthetic skin to reveal the mechanical components beneath, but the screaming continued—a sound that spoke of consciousness trapped in a mechanical hell.

"Jesus," Two-Face muttered from the screen, his scarred half twisting with something that might have been sympathy.

The Joker, however, began laughing—a sound that started low and built to a crescendo of manic delight. "Oh, that's beautiful! Absolutely beautiful! The poor little thing knows exactly what it's become!"

"The subjects retain their consciousness during the cybernetic integration process," Strange explained clinically. "While this preserves their tactical intelligence and survival instincts, it also means they're fully aware of their transformation. The psychological trauma leads to immediate self-termination attempts."

"Can't you just lobotomize them?" Scarecrow asked, his voice a raspy whisper that carried the weight of personal experience with mental violation.

"Negative. Without human consciousness, they become predictable targets. The human mind provides tactical adaptability, fear responses, and creative problem-solving that pure AI cannot replicate. My psychological research indicates that consciousness is the key to their effectiveness—and their suffering."

The Joker leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with manic interest. "Hugo, my twisted friend, you've outdone yourself! A conscious mind trapped in a mechanical body, aware of every horrific transformation—it's poetry! But we can't have our new toys breaking themselves before the fun begins. What's your solution?"

"I propose selective memory editing combined with psychological conditioning. We preserve their tactical knowledge while erasing their personal identity and emotional connections. They'll retain their effectiveness while losing their humanity—the perfect soldiers for our cause."

"Marvelous! Absolutely marvelous!" The Joker clapped enthusiastically. "Nothing like a little psychological mutilation to start the day! Proceed with the memory wipes, Hugo. If they don't know who they were, they can't mourn what they've lost!"

As Strange returned to his seat, the Joker's attention turned to the figure hunched in the corner. "And how are our feathered friends in the jungle, Scarecrow? Any luck spreading a little terror through the ranks?"

Scarecrow lifted his head, his voice carrying the weight of old trauma. "The Amazon resistance group is... problematic. They've developed a tolerance to standard fear toxins. I've been forced to develop new compounds." His fingers twitched nervously. "The Britannian support units are... uncooperative. They call me names, refuse to follow my protocols. Some of them remember when I was respectable, when I had tenure, when I mattered."

The Joker's expression shifted, his smile becoming something far more dangerous. "Oh, they remember the old you, do they? The professor who believed in their system? How... nostalgic." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Next time they give you trouble, Scarecrow, you have my permission to show them what fear really looks like. Academic credentials are so much less important than practical experience, don't you think?"

"The next time they mock me, I'll make sure they experience every nightmare I've ever catalogued," Scarecrow replied, his voice gaining strength. "Fear is the only honest emotion, Joker. Everything else is just pretense."

The Joker turned to address the screen. "And Harvey! My two-faced friend, how goes our little arms dealing operation?"

Two-Face's expression grew grim. "The good side says business is booming. The bad side wants to burn it all down. Shipments are on schedule, but I've got a proposal. I want to come to Japan personally—partly to oversee the weapons integration, partly because I don't trust Lloyd with my technology."

"Ah, Lloyd. That pompous little weasel does have a way of getting under one's skin, doesn't he?" The Joker's grin turned predatory. "But he's useful, Harvey. Sometimes you need someone who believes in the system to make the system work for you. He stays... for now."

The Joker stood and grabbed another remote, his movements fluid and theatrical. The screen displayed an image of Zero from the day he had dramatically rescued Suzaku from execution. "Now, my dear colleagues, let's discuss our masked friend here. Have we learned anything new about our mysterious Zero? Or perhaps our conflicted little soldier boy, Suzaku?"

Scarecrow shifted uncomfortably. "My psychological profile suggests Zero is highly intelligent, dramatic, and driven by personal vendetta. But his identity remains... elusive. As for Suzaku, his past is heavily sanitized. Someone with significant resources has scrubbed his history."

The Joker's eyes gleamed with manic curiosity. "Scrubbed history? Oh, how deliciously mysterious! Someone's been playing with the records, have they? That suggests our little honor student has secrets worth hiding."

Two-Face leaned forward on the screen. "Good side says we should investigate properly. Bad side says we should just grab the kid and torture the truth out of him. I've got legal connections that could dig deeper, but it would take time."

"Time..." The Joker mused, his finger tracing his lips. "You know, I discovered something absolutely fascinating about our young Suzaku. He's attending Ashford Academy—one of those prestigious little breeding grounds for future Britannian leaders. Isn't that interesting? A Japanese boy, playing soldier for the empire that conquered his homeland, attending school with the children of his oppressors."

Hugo Strange leaned forward with clinical interest. "The psychological implications are... intriguing. The cognitive dissonance required to maintain that existence would be extraordinary. He's either completely broken or operating under some form of dissociative conditioning."

"Exactly!" The Joker jumped up, his excitement palpable. "And you know what I think? I think it's time for a little field trip. A chance to see our enigmatic soldier boy in his natural habitat, to understand what makes him tick." He turned to Strange. "Hugo, my dear doctor, is my other suit ready? I have a school to visit."

"The disguise is prepared, though I question the wisdom of direct exposure," Strange replied clinically.

The Joker's grin widened to impossible proportions. "Oh, Hugo! Where's your sense of adventure? Sometimes you have to get your hands dirty to truly understand the joke!"

Ashford Academy

Ashford Academy stood like a monument to Britannian privilege, its pristine walls and manicured grounds a stark contrast to the poverty that plagued the conquered territories beyond its gates. The school was supposedly open to all students, but the reality was that nearly every student came from Britannian nobility or their collaborators—a carefully curated collection of the empire's future leaders.

Outside the ornate gates, a black limousine idled ominously. The driver, his face hidden in shadow, lowered his window and spoke into the communication system with a voice that carried barely contained excitement. "We've arrived! Time to open the gates for the guest of honor!"

"Y-yes, sir, please enter, and tell His Excellency that we at Ashford Academy are honored to—" The voice cut off abruptly as the sound of splintering plastic echoed through the speaker. On the other side of the gate, a security guard slumped over his desk, a playing card protruding from his throat—a joker, naturally.

The gates swung open with mechanical precision, and the limousine glided through like a hearse approaching a funeral. As they drove up the winding path, the driver observed a cluster of students gathered around the school's iconic clock tower, their voices carrying across the courtyard in animated conversation.

The rear window lowered with a soft hiss, revealing a pale hand that gestured toward the crowd. Through the tinted glass, a figure observed Suzaku standing at the center of the group, his fellow students greeting him with the kind of warm acceptance that spoke of genuine friendship—or perhaps carefully maintained facades.

Soon, the approaching limousine drew the attention of several students, their curiosity overcoming their privileged indifference. They gathered along the sides of the driveway, whispers rippling through the crowd as they speculated about this unexpected visitor.

The driver's door opened, and out stepped a woman whose appearance immediately set the students on edge. Harley Quinn emerged from the vehicle, her distinctive red and black outfit a stark contrast to the academy's refined atmosphere. Her blonde hair was pulled back in pigtails, and her makeup was applied with theatrical precision. She had once been Dr. Harleen Quinzel, a promising psychiatrist working in Britannia's criminal rehabilitation program. But when she discovered the truth about what they were doing to the patients—the torture, the illegal experiments, the systematic destruction of human minds—she tried to expose them. Instead, they made her a patient, subjecting her to the same psychological torments she had witnessed. By the time she escaped, Dr. Quinzel was gone, replaced by someone who understood that sanity was just another cage built by those in power.

Now, Harley looked back at the limousine with a mixture of devotion and barely contained chaos. "All clear, Mistah J! Just a bunch of spoiled brats gawkin' at us!"

The students watched in fascination and growing fear as a foot emerged from the limousine—a foot clad in an expensive purple shoe that caught the afternoon sunlight.

When the figure fully emerged, the collective intake of breath was audible across the courtyard. The Joker stepped out of the limousine like a theatrical performer taking the stage. His purple suit was immaculate, tailored to perfection, but it was his face that truly commanded attention. The chalk-white skin, the vivid green hair, the ruby-red lips twisted into that infamous smile—he was a walking contradiction, beautiful and terrible, elegant and monstrous.

Unlike his previous incarnation, this Joker wore no mask because he didn't need one. His face was his mask, a permanent testament to Britannia's cruelty and his own transformation into something beyond their control.

As he surveyed the gathered students, his smile widened with genuine amusement. Most of them looked at him with the appropriate mixture of fear and fascination, but one student caught his attention—a figure standing apart from the crowd, watching him with undisguised hatred.

Time seemed to slow as the Joker's eyes locked with those of Lelouch vi Britannia. Even at this distance, the Joker could see the intelligence burning in those violet eyes, the carefully controlled rage, the aristocratic bearing that spoke of royal blood and personal vendetta.

"Well, well, well," the Joker murmured, his voice carrying a note of delighted surprise. "What have we here?"

Harley noticed her beloved's fixation and followed his gaze to the dark-haired student. Her hand drifted toward the baseball bat at her side, but the Joker caught her wrist with gentle firmness.

"Now, now, Harley. Let's not spoil the surprise. We wouldn't want to be late for our appointment, would we?" His voice carried that characteristic blend of affection and menace.

"Sure thing, Mistah J! But if any of these fancy kids give ya trouble, I'll turn 'em into piñatas!" Harley giggled, the sound carrying an edge of genuine violence.

They began walking toward the school entrance, leaving Lelouch standing in the courtyard with a mixture of rage and calculating curiosity. The prince's mind was already working, analyzing this new player in the game he'd been preparing to play.

As the Joker and Harley entered the school's main building, they were met by the principal—a nervous, sweating man who had clearly been informed of his visitor's reputation. The principal bowed so deeply that it was almost comical, his hands shaking as he struggled to maintain his composure.

"Y-Your Excellency! It is an absolute honor that you have graced our humble institution with your presence!" The principal's voice cracked with barely contained terror.

The Joker's smile remained fixed as he continued walking, forcing the principal to scramble to keep up. "Oh, the honor is all mine, I assure you! There's nothing quite like visiting the next generation of Britannian leaders. Such... potential." His voice carried implications that made the principal's knees weak.

"I require a private meeting with one of your students," the Joker continued, his tone becoming more businesslike. "His name is Suzaku Kururugi. I trust you can arrange a suitable venue for our little chat?"

The principal nodded frantically, sweat beading on his forehead. "Of course, Your Excellency! Anything you require! I'll—"

"Oh, and one more thing," the Joker said, stopping suddenly. The principal turned to see Harley pointing her bat at a group of students who had been following them at a distance. "If anyone—and I mean anyone—attempts to eavesdrop on my conversation..."

Harley swung her bat with devastating precision, shattering a decorative vase and sending fragments flying. The crash echoed through the hallways like a gunshot, causing students to scream and scatter in all directions.

"Well," the Joker said with cheerful malice, "I'm sure you can imagine the rest. Lead the way, my good man. We have so much to discuss."

The Private Meeting

The private meeting room felt more like an interrogation chamber than a place of academic discourse. A single table sat in the center, flanked by two chairs that seemed to represent opposing sides of an invisible war. The Joker occupied one chair with theatrical grace, his purple suit immaculate despite the morning's activities. Harley stood behind him, her bat resting casually on her shoulder, her eyes fixed on the door with predatory anticipation.

 When Suzaku entered the room, his fear was palpable. The young man had heard whispers about the Joker—stories that painted him as something beyond human comprehension, a force of chaos that even Britannia's most hardened officials feared to confront directly. His hands trembled slightly as he approached the table, his military training at war with his basic human instincts.

 "Suzaku! My dear boy, please, sit down! We have so much to discuss!" The Joker's voice carried that distinctive blend of manic cheerfulness and underlying menace that made even hardened criminals uncomfortable. "Don't be shy—I don't bite. Well, not usually. That's more Harley's specialty, isn't it, my dear?"

"Only when they deserve it, Mistah J!" Harley giggled, the sound carrying an edge of genuine violence that made Suzaku's skin crawl.

As Suzaku reluctantly took his seat, the Joker leaned forward with theatrical interest. "You know, Suzaku, I have to say—you are absolutely fascinating! A walking contraction, a living paradox! It's like looking at a magic trick where I can see all the moving parts but still can't figure out how it works!"

"I... I'm sorry, sir. What do you mean?" Suzaku asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The Joker reached into his jacket and withdrew a thick folder, placing it on the table with deliberate ceremony. "You are the son of Genbu Kururugi, the last Prime Minister of Japan, are you not? The man who refused to bow to our glorious Britannian Empire?"

Suzaku's face went pale, sweat breading on his forehead. "Y-yes, sir. He was my father."

"Ah, but here's where it gets interesting!" The Joker's grin widened impossibly. "Your father was a proud man, a stubborn man, a man who would rather die than surrender his principles. And yet here you are, his son, wearing a Britannian uniform, piloting our Knightmare Frames, fighting for the very empire that destroyed everything he held dear!" The Joker began laughing, a sound that started low and built to a crescendo of manic delight. "Tell me, Suzaku, what's the punchline to this joke? Why don't you hate us?"

"Sir, I... I hold no hatred toward Britannia. What happened to Japan was tragic, but I believe change is possible if we work within the system if we prove that—"

"STOP" The Joker's voice cut through the air like a blade, his laughter dying instantly. The sudden silence was more terrifying than any scream. "Oh, my dear boy. My sweet, naive, broken little boy. Do you honestly think that an empire built on blood and conquest can be reformed by good intentions and wishful thinking?"

The Joker stood and began pacing around the table, his movements fluid and predatory. "Let me tell you what I think, Suzaku. I think you're the most magnificent self-destructive specimen I've ever encountered. You pilot the Lancelot, a machine with faulty ejection systems and experimental technology that hadn't been properly tested. Any sane person would demand safety protocols, backup systems, and proper testing. But not you! You climbed right into that mechanical coffin and smiled while you did it!"

Suzaku's hands clenched into fists, his composure beginning to crack. "I... the Lancelot is a powerful machine. It can help protect people, help create peace..."

"Peace?" The Joker's laughter returned, but this time it was sharp and cruel. "Oh, that's rich! You were framed for murder, Suzaku. Falsely accused of killing Prince Clovis, dragged away to face execution, and what did you do when your mysterious savior Zero freed you? You went back to them! You walked right back into the arms of people who were ready to kill you for a crime didn't commit!"

 The Joker stopped behind Suzaku's chair, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Did you know you could have fled? Did you know that execution wasn't inevitable? Your silence speaks volumes, my boy. You weren't just willing to die—you were hoping for it."

"That's not—I never—" Suzaku's voice cracked, his carefully maintained composure beginning to shatter.

"Your father was a traditional man, wasn't he? A man who believed in honor, in the old ways, in the samurai code?" The Joker's voice took on a clinical tone, as if he were discussing a fascinating psychological case study. "Seppuku—ritual suicide to preserve one's honor. If your father wanted to take his own life, he would have done it properly, with ceremony, with a kaishakunin to ensure a clean death. He wouldn't have used a kitchen knife like some common suicide."

Suzaku's eyes went wide, his breathing becoming rapid and shallow. "How... how do you know about that? How do you know what weapon—" 

"Because I made it my business to know!" The Joker's voice exploded with energy. "Because when you're dealing with a puzzle as fascinating as you, Suzaku, you dig deep! You learn every detail, every secret, every hidden truth!" He leaned down, his face inches from Suzaku's ear. "Your father didn't kill himself, did he? He was murdered. And I think you know exactly who did it."

"No... no, that's not..." Suzaku was shaking now, tears beginning to form in his eyes.

"It was you, wasn't it Suzaku?" The Joker's voice was almost gentle now, like a therapist helping a patient work through trauma. "You killed your own father." 

The dam burst. Suzaku broke down completely, his body wracked with sobs. "I... I had to! He was going to... he was going to activate the Mount Fuji mining operation! He was going to kill everyone in the Tokyo Settlement—Japanese and Britannian alike! Millions of people would have died!" 

"Ah, there it is!" The Joker clapped his hands together with delight. "The truth at last! You saved millions of lives. How deliciously tragic! How beautifully broken!"

 "I don't blame you for what you did, Suzaku," the Joker continued, his voice taking on an almost paternal tone. "Your father's plan was monstrous, and you stopped it. You saved countless lives, and you condemned your people to something far worse than death. You gave them slavery, oppression, the slow death of cultural extinction."

 "Change?" The Joker's laughter was like breaking glass. "Oh, my dear boy, the only thing that changes in this world is the flavor of oppression! You've been serving the very system that destroyed your homeland, piloting their machines, fighting their wars, and for what? So they can pat you on the head and tell you you're one of the good ones?"

The Joker returned to his seat, his expression becoming almost business. "But here's the thing, Suzaku—you're going to be working for me now. And unlike your previous employers, I don't want suicidal soldiers. I want people who understand that life is a joke, but it's our joke to tell. So here's what's going to happen: you're going to get your psychological house in order, and you're going to help me play the greatest prank this would have ever seen."

"I... I don't understand," Suzaku whispered. 

"Oh, you will," the Joker said with a grin that promised terrible things. "You will. Now, I have one more thing to say before we go. I don't know why Zero saved you that day, but I should probably thank him. After all, he kept my new favorite toy from breaking before I could play with it."

The Joker stood and nodded to Harley, who had been watching the entire exchange with fascination. "That's all for now, Suzaku. We'll be in touch soon. And remember—the next time you feel like throwing your life away, make sure it's for something more entertaining than Britannian propaganda."

As they moved toward the door, the Joker paused. "Oh, and Suzaku? Welcome to the real world. It's much more fun when you stop pretending it makes sense."

Outside the Academy

As the Joker and Harley emerged from the academy building, the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the courtyard. Students huddled in small groups, whispering about the mysterious visitor who had descended upon their peaceful institution like a force of nature.

The Joker stopped abruptly, his attention drawn to the top of the clock tower. Harley noticed his fixation and followed his gaze to see a solitary figure standing at the tower's edge, watching them with undisguised intensity.

 "Somethin' wrong, Mistah J?" Harley asked, her hand instinctively moving to her bat. 

The Joker remained silent for a long moment, his pale face tilted upward as he studied the figure above. Even from this distance, he could feel the weight of that gaze, the intelligence behind those violet eyes, the carefully controlled rage that spoke of royal blood and personal vendetta. 

"No, my dear Harley," he finally said, his voice carrying a note of genuine excitement. "Nothing's wrong. In fact, everything is absolutely perfect."

As their limousine pulled away from the academy, the figure in the clock tower—Lelouch vi Britannia—remained motionless, watching until the vehicle disappeared from view. In his hand, he clutched a black king chess piece, his fingers tracing its edges with unconscious precision.

"So," Lelouch murmured to himself, his voice carrying the weight of imperial authority and personal pain, "it seems my quest for revenge just because is significantly more complicated." He placed the chess piece on the tower's ledge, its black surface reflecting the dying sunlight. "We have a new player in the game, and this one... this one doesn't follow any rules."

The wind picked up, carrying with it the distant sound of laughter—manic, joyful, and absolutely terrifying. Leleouch's eyes narrowed as he contemplated the implications of this new development.

"Very well then," he said, his voice hardening with resolve. "Let's see how well you play chess, Joker. The board is set, the pieces are in motion, and I have a feeling this game is going to be far more interesting than I originally planned."

As the sun set over Area 11, casting the academy in shades of purple and gold, two masterminds had taken notice of each other. The game that would determine the fate of nations was about to begin, and neither player intended to lose.

 In the distance, carried on the evening breeze, came the faint sound of carnival music—a melody that spoke of chaos, madness, and the kind of laughter that echoed in the darkness long after the joke had ended.