# Polished Chapter: Amazon Forest to Operation Clean-Up
## Amazon Rainforest
The Amazon rainforest is typically serene, a cathedral of green silence. Tonight, however, the ancient trees echo with the crack of gunfire and the scream of twisted metal. Even at midnight, muzzle flashes strobe through the darkness like deadly fireflies.
Most conflicts in this region pit Britannia's conventional forces against local insurgents, but tonight's engagement is altogether different. This isn't empire versus rebels—this is something far more sinister.
On one side operates a mercenary unit that officially takes contracts from Britannia's military. Unofficially, their true allegiance belongs to SPECTRE—and more specifically, to its enigmatic leader, Ernst Stavro Blofeld. These are no ordinary soldiers of fortune; they are SPECTRE's chosen instruments of war.
In the dense undergrowth below, two generations of military technology clash with lethal precision. Britannia's aging Knightmare frames, stalwart but outdated, face off against SPECTRE's custom-modified units—sleeker predators equipped with technology that shouldn't exist for another decade.
The engagement is brief and decisive. SPECTRE's technological superiority becomes apparent within minutes as their advanced targeting systems and enhanced armor give them an overwhelming advantage.
"Command, tell those Britannian idiots to check their targets!" one SPECTRE operative barks over the comm, his weapon cutting down two resistance fighters with clinical efficiency.
"Those blue-blooded amateurs couldn't hit water if they fell out of a boat," another replies, his voice carrying the cultured accent of a former military academy graduate. "They're more concerned with their formations than actually winning."
Inside his advanced suit, a SPECTRE pilot watches a resistance mech charging toward his position. With practiced ease, he drives his armored fist through the enemy's chest plate, extracts the pilot, and discards the body with mechanical indifference. "Adequate resistance. Nothing we haven't handled in Montenegro or Cambodia."
Suddenly, a squad of enemy Knightmares crests the jungle ridge. The night air fills with the industrial shriek of a chainsaw blade—but this is no ordinary tool. A SPECTRE unit wielding the massive weapon like a medieval broadsword descends upon the enemy formation. Within moments, the squad is reduced to sparking wreckage.
The chainsaw-wielding pilot surveys his work with professional satisfaction, the weapon resting casually on his suit's shoulder.
"Gentlemen, ladies," comes a voice over the secure channel, crisp and efficient. "Word from Number One—mission parameters have changed. We complete this operation and withdraw immediately. Even Britannia is pulling their people out."
"About bloody time," the operatives respond in practiced unison.
Above the canopy, another SPECTRE unit circles like a mechanical vulture before unleashing a controlled napalm strike on a cluster of trees. Resistance fighters caught in the inferno drop their rocket launchers just as the ammunition detonates, creating a secondary explosion that illuminates the jungle for miles.
The airborne unit settles beside the chainsaw operator. "What's our next theater of operations, then?"
The pilot grins behind his tactical visor. "Hope you've brushed up on your Japanese etiquette. We're being redeployed to Area 11." He pauses for dramatic effect. "The Land of the Rising Sun."
## Area 11: SPECTRE Command Center
Deep within a fortress hidden beneath the urban sprawl of Area 11, Ernst Stavro Blofeld sits motionless in his command chair, observing multiple tactical displays with the patience of a master chess player. His chief scientific advisor approaches with barely contained enthusiasm.
"As you can see, sir, our recruitment initiative is exceeding all projections," the man reports, adjusting his thick glasses. "Conservative estimates suggest a three-hundred-percent increase in qualified applicants within the next quarter."
Blofeld's response is measured, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Excellent. But are you confident this campaign will attract the right caliber of operative? I want the Japanese people to view SPECTRE not as conquerors, but as liberators."
"Absolutely, sir. Particularly given our humanitarian efforts during Princess Euphemia's recent... incident in the ghetto districts—"
Blofeld rises with fluid grace, his imposing figure casting long shadows across the command center. "That will suffice, Doctor." His tone brooks no argument. "I have appointments with the colonial nobility." He glances at a nearby aide. "Is my formal attire prepared?"
"Everything is ready, sir."
"Splendid. Time to play diplomat with Britannia's privileged children," Blofeld murmurs, though his voice carries across the chamber. He sighs—a sound like silk over steel. "I may need to accelerate our timeline depending on tonight's... negotiations."
## The Luxury Express
Blofeld travels alone in a private railroad car that would make the Orient Express seem modest by comparison. Crystal decanters filled with vintage spirits catch the light from handcrafted fixtures, while untouched delicacies rest on bone china. The opulence feels obscene given what slides past the bulletproof windows—miles of urban squalor that bear his family's signature.
He studies the slums with the detached interest of a natural historian examining specimens. "Soon," he whispers to himself, voice soft as velvet over razors. "Very soon, you shall all know freedom."
From the adjacent compartment, the bright chatter of privileged youth drifts through the walls—innocent, naive, blissfully unaware of the world's darker truths.
"I've never been outside the Tokyo settlement! This is absolutely thrilling!" The voice belongs to a spirited girl with striking auburn hair and emerald eyes.
"You're only excited because you're hoping to run into Lelouch at the lake," teases a blonde with the confident air of someone accustomed to command.
"Milly!" comes the mortified response.
"Oh, don't be such a wallflower! We can stay up all night discussing our romantic prospects," Milly continues with obvious delight.
"Miss President, you're incorrigible," the auburn-haired girl replies, though her tone suggests affection rather than annoyance.
Behind his impassive mask, Blofeld allows himself a thin smile. He bears no ill will toward these sheltered young women—they've been carefully insulated from harsh realities by design. However, the mention of "Lelouch" causes his entire frame to tense imperceptibly. That name hasn't crossed his path since his younger brother's exile to Japan as a child. The probability is astronomically small, and yet...
His contemplation is interrupted as the train enters a mountain tunnel. In the sudden darkness, he hears one of the girls gasp with fear.
"Nina, you're perfectly safe," Milly soothes. "Lake Kawaguchi is crawling with Britannian security. It's not like we're traveling through the ghetto districts."
"I know, but—" Nina's voice trembles.
Blofeld's expression hardens behind his mask. Fear of the dispossessed—people suffering because of policies bearing his family's seal? The irony is too perfect to ignore.
"Young lady," he says, his cultured voice cutting through their conversation like a scalpel, "your fear is misplaced." The girls freeze, immediately recognizing both his voice and the gravity of addressing royalty. He continues studying the passing landscape, a crystal tumbler balanced perfectly in his gloved hand. "You fear those who suffer because of what has been done to them in our name. If they harbor resentment toward the Empire, they have earned that right through blood and loss."
"Lord Blofeld..." Milly whispers, clearly startled by his directness.
His voice grows colder, more precise. "I understand your conditioning—my father has spent decades feeding the nobility carefully crafted narratives about our 'civilizing mission.' But consider this truth: Japanese or Eleven, the designation is merely administrative. Change a serpent's name, and it remains a serpent." He tightens his grip on the crystal, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "And every serpent possesses fangs."
The glass shatters in his grip with surgical precision. Without acknowledging the destruction, he rises and walks toward the club car, hands clasped behind his back like a professor concluding a lecture. The girls remain frozen in shocked silence.
After several moments, Milly recovers her composure and follows him.
## The Club Car
Blofeld sits at the mahogany bar, watching with detached interest as a nervous steward pours thirty-year-old single malt into a fresh glass. The man's hands shake slightly—few people can claim to have served royalty personally.
"Your whiskey, Your Lordship," the steward manages, bowing deeply.
Blofeld slides a gold sovereign across the polished wood. "Your discretion is appreciated. You may go."
Before he can sample the whiskey, a determined voice interrupts his solitude. "That was unnecessarily cruel."
The blonde student stands beside him, no longer the carefree schoolgirl but someone wrestling with uncomfortable truths.
He turns to face her properly, his movements economical and graceful. "Forgive me, Miss—?"
"Milly. Milly Ashford," she replies with more steel in her voice than her years would suggest.
Blofeld's demeanor shifts subtly. "Ashford. A family name that still carries weight in certain circles."
She nods. "Though I imagine that means little to someone of your... position."
"On the contrary, Miss Ashford. Your family represents something increasingly rare among the nobility—integrity." He gestures to the leather chair beside him. "Please, join me."
Her surprise is genuine. Someone with Blofeld's reputation—brilliant, ruthless, completely without sentiment—showing respect to a politically diminished house?
"Thank you, my lord," she says, settling into the chair. "I must confess, I expected... well, given your reputation for, shall we say, directness..."
He chuckles—a sound like fine champagne over cut glass. "Reputations are carefully cultivated tools, Miss Ashford. I don't despise all nobility—merely those who mistake privilege for virtue." He activates a discrete mechanism in his collar, opening a small aperture that allows him to drink while maintaining his protective mask.
Through the opening, Milly glimpses something that makes her recoil in horror—not flesh, but a twisted landscape of scar tissue and reconstructed bone.
Her sharp intake of breath doesn't go unnoticed. Blofeld calmly closes the aperture and sets down his glass.
"SPECTRE operatives attempted to eliminate my family when I was twelve," he explains with clinical detachment. "A shaped charge detonated while I was trapped in our estate's wine cellar. The mask isn't mere affectation—it houses life support systems that allow me to function."
"Dear God," Milly whispers. "I'm so terribly sorry. I didn't mean to—"
He waves away her distress. "Ancient history, Miss Ashford. Scars make us who we are." His tone becomes more serious. "Regarding your friend Nina—help her understand that the Japanese aren't monsters. They're simply people pushed beyond endurance."
She looks puzzled. "Forgive my curiosity, but why do you care so deeply about their welfare?"
He rises and activates a control panel beside the window. "Observe."
The first view shows a glittering metropolis—theaters, restaurants, shopping districts, the very pinnacle of civilized luxury.
He touches another control, and a second window iris opens, revealing the ghettos in stark contrast.
"These people subsist on scraps," he says quietly. "The fortunate ones find employment serving the empire that erased their culture. Others survive on refuse and vermin."
Milly stares in horror at a mother cradling her malnourished child in the ruins of what was once a family home. She covers her mouth, overwhelmed.
"We dine on delicacies while they starve in squalor. This is the legacy my family has authored, and I intend to rewrite it. They will know freedom, whatever the cost."
He moves toward the door, then pauses. "So please, help your friend develop perspective. If she cannot manage basic human empathy, then she should at least acknowledge the comfortable hypocrisy of her position while others suffer for her privilege."
As he departs, Milly stares after him, then back at the ghettos. Tears stream down her face as the full weight of their complicity settles upon her.
"Are we the villains in this story?" she whispers to the empty car. "Heaven forgive us all."
## The Grand Hotel
Blofeld's suite occupies the entire top floor of Lake Kawaguchi's most exclusive resort—a testament to both his status and his family's wealth. He surveys the opulent accommodations with visible distaste.
"A standard room would have sufficed admirably," he mutters, setting his overnight case on the silk-draped bed.
He positions himself before an ornate mirror, studying his reflection with the intensity of a man preparing for battle. Slowly, his hands move toward his mask's release mechanism, fingers hovering over hidden clasps...
The door explodes inward with military precision. Two armed men in tactical gear storm the suite, weapons trained on him with professional competence.
"Freeze, Britannian!" the lead operative barks in accented English.
Blofeld raises his hands with theatrical calm. "I really should have brought my security detail," he observes, just before a rifle butt connects with his solar plexus.
Doubled over but maintaining his composure, he's dragged through corridors toward an improvised holding area filled with other captives.
Among the hostages, he spots his half-sister Euphemia, her royal composure intact despite the circumstances. She moves to assist him, but he waves her away with subtle authority.
"I'm quite unharmed, Euphie."
She sighs with familiar exasperation. "Maximus, we can resume our philosophical differences once we've survived this ordeal. For now, we must think strategically."
He straightens his formal jacket with practiced dignity. "Agreed. However, maintain your anonymity. They'll identify me soon enough." His concern for her safety is genuine, if carefully controlled. "Stay with the other civilians. Avoid drawing attention."
A Japanese officer enters—clearly former military, his bearing suggesting both competence and desperation. A katana hangs at his side, its presence more symbolic than practical. He nods to one of his subordinates.
"Bring the prince forward."
Rough hands haul Blofeld to his feet with unnecessary force.
"So, we finally meet, Ernst Stavro Blofeld," the officer says with cold satisfaction. "Though I must say, you're far less impressive than your reputation suggested. Capturing you was almost disappointingly simple."
Blofeld meets his gaze with arctic calm. "If you're attempting to provoke me, General Kusakabe, you'll need to employ more sophisticated tactics."
The officer's confidence falters slightly at being recognized so easily. "Clever. But cleverness won't save you now. What's your grand strategy—hold us hostage until your demands are met? Do you even have an extraction plan?"
"More pertinently," Blofeld counters smoothly, "do you? Because from my perspective, this appears to be a suicide mission masquerading as a rescue operation. Quite frankly, General, I expected better tactical planning from someone of your background."
Kusakabe's face flushes with rage. He draws his sidearm and presses it against Blofeld's temple with shaking hands. "Don't mock me, boy! You hide behind that mask like a coward, unlike Zero. At least he faces his enemies with honor!"
Blofeld remains silent for a long moment, then deliberately reaches up and activates his mask's release sequence. Pneumatic seals hiss as the sophisticated device disengages.
"The mask serves a medical function," he states with perfect calm, lifting it away and allowing it to fall to the floor with a resonant clang.
The room falls into absolute silence. Even Kusakabe's weapon hand begins to tremble violently.
"Dear... merciful God," the general whispers.
Blofeld's face is a masterwork of surgical reconstruction—burned tissue grafted over titanium supports, one eye replaced with a sophisticated prosthetic, his jaw partially mechanical where bone was too damaged to repair naturally.
"Not quite what you anticipated, is it, General?" Blofeld inquires conversationally. When he speaks, the interplay of organic and artificial components is clearly visible. "Modern medical technology represents humanity's triumph over mortality's limitations. I don't wear this mask from cowardice." He grasps Kusakabe's gun hand and presses the barrel firmly against his own forehead. "Does this appear to be the face of a man who fears death?"
Kusakabe jerks his hand back, visibly shaken. "What in hell happened to you?"
Blofeld simply retrieves his mask, reattaches it with practiced efficiency, and settles into a nearby chair. The mechanical breathing resumes as life support systems come online. Around the room, hostages stare in shocked silence while Milly weeps openly and Euphemia struggles to contain her emotional response.
He sits alone, patient as a spider, waiting for the next movement in this deadly game.
## Hours Later
The remainder of the hostage crisis unfolds with predictable precision: a mysterious green-haired girl nearly sacrifices herself protecting civilians, only to be saved by Euphemia's quick intervention. Notably, after his dramatic revelation, even the hardened terrorists seem reluctant to deal directly with Blofeld.
As explosions rock the building from an external assault, surviving hostages are evacuated to waiting lifeboats. Blofeld observes the chaos with professional interest, arms crossed behind his back.
On the primary evacuation vessel, he finally encounters him—Zero.
Zero's speech echoes across the water with rhetorical precision: "Only those prepared to be shot should shoot." Despite himself, Blofeld finds the philosophy admirably pragmatic.
As the Black Knights complete their rescue operation, slow, measured applause cuts through the night air. Ernst Stavro Blofeld steps from the shadows with the fluid grace of a predator.
"Quite the inspiring performance... Zero, I presume?" Blofeld's voice carries effortlessly across the water. With a burst from concealed jetpack systems, he lands on the Black Knights' vessel with balletic precision, directly facing their masked leader. Several operatives reach for weapons, but Zero's raised hand maintains discipline.
"Impressive technology," Zero observes with genuine appreciation.
Two legends face each other across a few feet of deck space—each representing different philosophies of revolution.
"Our long-anticipated meeting, Zero. You exceed expectations," Blofeld states with something approaching warmth.
Zero studies him carefully. "The notorious Ernst Stavro Blofeld. Your reputation is... complex. I believe I owe you acknowledgment for your actions during the Shinjuku incident—you prioritized civilian lives over tactical advantage. So I must ask: why do you remain aligned with Britannia when you clearly recognize their systematic injustices? Is this connected to your brother's exile?"
Blofeld's laugh is like silk being cut with a razor. "I maintain my own agenda, Zero. As for my brother—his choices led to his circumstances. I feel no obligation to avenge perceived slights."
He steps closer, his voice dropping to conversational intimacy. "You know, in different circumstances, you would have made an exceptional SPECTRE operative. All of you possess the necessary qualities—intelligence, dedication, tactical brilliance." He pauses meaningfully. "But perhaps circumstances aren't as fixed as they appear."
Zero remains alert but intrigued. "What exactly are you proposing, Blofeld?"
Blofeld moves close enough to whisper something that only Zero can hear. Whatever passes between them causes Zero's entire posture to shift dramatically.
"One final point, Zero," Blofeld says, stepping back. "Like your organization, SPECTRE operates according to certain principles. Nationality, ethnicity, social class—these are irrelevant administrative categories. I judge people by their character and their commitment to judge."
He turns toward the broadcast cameras that have been documenting the rescue, addressing the watching world with practiced authority:
"To all who are listening: I am Ernst Stavro Blofeld, director of the organization known as SPECTRE. I extend an invitation to anyone weary of corruption, oppression, and the abuse of institutional power. You are not alone in this struggle."
Around the World
The Private Club
"We operate from shadow not from fear, but because the enemy you should fear most is the one you never see approaching."
In an exclusive gentleman's club in central Tokyo, well-dressed members sip vintage spirits while discussing the evening's extraordinary broadcast. At a corner table, four individuals in impeccable business attire listen with laser focus. When one reaches for his brandy snifter, a small octopus tattoo is briefly visible on his wrist.
Shinjuku Ghetto
"To those who would harm the innocent: Be very afraid. We are everywhere, and you will not see death coming until it takes you."
In a crumbling tenement, a violent drunk raises his fist toward his cowering family. The door splinters inward with surgical precision. A figure in expensive but understated clothing enters, produces a silenced pistol, and puts a single bullet through the abuser's brain stem.
The terrified child looks up at his savior, who briefly lowers his collar to reveal an octopus tattoo. The boy's eyes widen—this moment will define his understanding of justice for the rest of his life.
Emperor Charles' Throne Room
"We are everywhere. You cannot escape justice. When the moment arrives, we will strike without warning or mercy."
Emperor Charles zi Britannia observes both broadcasts—Zero's heroic rescue, then his son's calculated declaration of war. He dismisses both with imperial disdain. "Theatrical nonsense."
He fails to notice that one of his elite Imperial Guards, standing at perfect attention, briefly clenches his fist—revealing an octopus symbol tattooed on his palm.
Princess Cornelia's Command Center
"To our allies across the globe: Remember that with SPECTRE, you never stand alone."
Inside the military command facility, dozens of Britannian officers maintain their posts with professional competence. When Blofeld's message reaches it climax, every single one of them subtly touches their collar—a gesture that reveals small octopus pins hidden beneath their uniform jackets.
Area 12 Military Complex
"And to all SPECTRE operatives, wherever you may serve: The endgame approaches Prepare yourselves. Long live SPECTRE!"
In a massive military installation, thousands of soldiers stand in perfect formation within an aircraft hangar. As Blofeld's final words echo through the speakers, they raise their right hands in synchronized salute and respond with disciplined precision:
"LONG LIVE SPECTRE"
Return to the Ship
When the broadcast concludes, Blofeld turns back to face Zero, and the assembled Black Knights. The tension is palpable—a moment balanced on the knife's edge between alliance and annihilation.
"This victory belongs to you, Zero. You've earned it through courage and competence. However, when we meet again—and we shall meet again—if you remain my adversary..."
He reaches up and deliberately removes his mask once more. Several Black Knights step back in involuntary horror, but Zero's own visor opens slightly—he wants to meet Blofeld's gaze directly, from scarred face to hidden features.
"THIS WILL BE THE LAST FACE YOU EVER SEE!"
The thunder of rotors overhead announces a SPECTRE extraction helicopter descending through the darkness. Blofeld replaces his mask with practiced efficiency and walks toward the extraction point.
"The choice remains yours, Zero—ally or enemy," he says without looking back. "Allow Zero and the Black Knights safe passage. They have earned their freedom tonight."
As the aircraft lifts into the night sky, Princess Cornelia and Knight of the Rounds Rounds Guliford observe from their command vessel.
But Cornelia stands transfixed, tears streaming down her aristocratic features. She remains hunted by the revelation of her brother's true face—the physical manifestation of everything their family's rule has cost in human terms.
Aboard the SPECTRE helicopter, two pilots converse quietly over the intercom.
"What was that display about? Number One has never revealed his face during an operation."
The senior pilot's response carries a note of grim satisfaction. "Don't you understand? When Ernst Stavro Blofeld shows his true face, it signals that everything is about to change. Operation Thunderball has officially commenced. From this point forward, every enemy of SPECTRE will know exactly who eliminated them."
He checks his navigation instruments, adjusting course towards their hidden base. "It was inevitable, really. The world needed to see what they created when they tried to destroy him. Now they'll understand the price of crossing SPECTRE."