Edited 6/22/2017 - Made changes to ages and years to preserve continuity for future chapters.

"You're not much of a small talker, are you?"

Lelouch glanced at his opponent – a blonde flanked by two bodyguards – from his position across the table. The words hadn't entirely registered, attention having been distracted by the monochrome board between them, but from the curious look in the aristocrat's eye, he caught onto their implication. The man was losing, after all.

He advanced with a knight.

"Forgive me if I've shown a tendency to prefer silence. I've never seen this game as one of the verbal kind."

The man snorted involuntarily, clearly bemused by his sardonicism, but lacking the heart to reply in kind. Instead, a glance into amethyst irises and a cock of the head served as sentiment, something that soon segued into another inquiry.

A pawn was pushed forward.

"Sure, sure. That's perfectly understandable. It has something to do with your eyes, right?"

Lelouch blinked hard before responding, seemingly caught off guard by the question. It was a fair analysis though. In a high-class casino crowded by orbs of blue and green, violet tended to attract an unsavory attention. Only quick games, in his experience, made it hard to amass a crowd.

He palmed his rook.

"In part, yes. It's unfortunate, I suppose, that my fondness for colored contacts has decayed over the years."

A short bark of laughter rang through the air, a reaction that even puzzled the man's security detail. A sense of humor maybe, but black's commander possessed threats on the board that had previously left their employer in a prolonged state of sobriety. Yet as of now, a white knight was being raised with an almost lackadaisical air about it.

And went on offense, instead of defense.

"Quite! Yet all the same, wouldn't discomfort be better than sharing a resemblance with the Britannian Emperor?"

A singular eyebrow rose on black's side of the board, wrinkle lines bemusedly noting white's heightening voice. It appeared that multiple heads had turned in their direction, no doubt antagonistic toward rumors of alleged ancestry. And, even less subtle, were the guards' small smirks of cognizance – expressions that all but replaced their former befuddlement.

Slowly, a hand was pulled back.

"Perhaps. But those implications are usually resolved with further discussion."

The man nodded obligingly, studying Lelouch's latest move with an almost lackadaisical air. Typically, a rook battery playing skewer was a practical choice, forcing players with even the slightest prudence to retreat mid-siege. Yet in this case, those furrowed brows of disgruntlement only lasted for a moment.

"Ah, good. It would have been a shame if people didn't tolerate emphatic expressions of nationality."

Glancing slightly to his sides as to signal his security detail, the blonde slowly reached for the white queen near the center of the board.

"That's check, by the way."

Lelouch's eyes narrowed, violet orbs piercing through a turbulent sea of monochrome. From a third-party's standpoint, the response should have been immediate – a knight fork followed by a pivotal capture. But those violet irises remained for a minute, sifting through both on and off-board animosity.

Until suddenly, he and two others shifted their hands to their waists.

« Oi ! Vous deux êtes trop tendu ! »

The blonde's underlings shared a moment of relaxation, eyes slowly shifting from Lelouch to their employer. Evidently, the former's gesture had broken the fragile tension, for the surrounding company had adopted an arched brow. And, although the latter was quick to recover it, the superficiality was almost blatantly evident.

"My apologies. Those two must have found your movement… peculiar."

Lelouch slowly nodded, hand slowly sliding away from his side. His opponent's lip had twitched upward ever so slightly, no doubt because of the off-board blunder. But even with the waters tested, and the bait taken, there was little room to do anything but humor an intrigue.

The way he grasped his king was familiar enough.

"I see. Then before I move, may I venture off-topic? Are you familiar with anyone with the moniker, 'The Black King?'"

The veiled smirk quickly became a frown, though it appeared more out of confusion than hostility. A delicate hand, after all, was one for headrests and meditation.

"I'm afraid not. Is that, perhaps, the name the masses have given you?"

Black's commander snorted, a sound that offered more complexity than just mere amusement. A full-on rebuke could have sufficed, but ambiguity, to his understanding, had always been the friend of melodrama.

"Oh, no. We're quite different people, he and I. Though you two, on the other hand, share an admirable commonality."

Wistful eyes watched as black's king toppled on its side.

"You both have control of the game before it even begins."

Lelouch had almost laughed at the irony.

Japan was independent. The Holy Britannian Empire had only conquered 1/3rd of the globe. The world had yet to even experience conflict between superpowers, barring the 20th century, and all nations had a vested respect for each other's ideologies and policies.

Truly, it was the kind of world that he had died for. Fought for with the wish of his sister in mind. For all intents and purposes, this was the ideal end-result of his blood, sweat, and tears.

And yet, he was faced with the fact that his interference couldn't have mattered less.

A glance at the date had confirmed that. September 5th, 2005. The anniversary of his death – almost twelve years too early. What appeared to be a perfect macrocosm proved itself neither parallel nor futuristic, but instead, served to only aggravate a necessary, yet impulsive inquiry.

How?

Certainly, geass was a noteworthy candidate. A thorough search of his body for puncture wounds had revealed both a scar and a Code, no doubt instrumental in his resurrection. Nevertheless, the revelation remained dumbfounding, and although a stolen Code by way of his father became a rational hypothesis, it still did little to reconcile a chronal displacement.

There was, after all, no true master of time. Even Rolo, whose powers had required a significant impediment to be equalized, had only altered perception. For him to have transcended such a barrier, it would have required more than mere volition. It would have meant supernatural, perhaps divine interference.

And that, he had found, was all the more unsettling.

The Collective Unconscious, although saved by his hand, was surely no stranger to his sins. The crimes. The atrocities that he had committed to craft his ideals. They were all actions worthy of inferno, and yet such a reality could only be described as paradise. For this to be justifiable. Conceivable, even; there had to be but one conclusion.

This was a blessing of the cursory kind.

Eventually, that sentiment was investigated. Curiosity, always the exploratory trait, had driven him to search for sidebars. Fine print in the benediction he had called a second chance. And – as libraries were often supplied – there were two discrepancies he found that had borne fruit.

The first of which, proved he was nothing. This was a world that knew neither Zero nor Demon Emperor, but, instead, a new personality – Alexis vi Britannia. For the first time, Lelouch faced the idea that his very existence was extraneous and, as such, he was struck with an estranged sense of isolation.

The emotion, traditionally speaking, wasn't foreign to him. Ever since his mother's death, cynicism and detachment had been constant travel companions, keeping him from any lasting social obligations. Yet despite this covertness, he had always appreciated the idea of knowing that, for better or worse, he had hundreds of friends and enemies intertwined in his life.

Now, however, they all belonged to a different version of himself. A younger, naïve, and, by all intents and purposes, congenital version of himself. Without warning, Suzaku could no longer be befriended. C.C couldn't be confided with. And, most importantly, Nunnally couldn't be his own.

He was, as far as he could tell, alone.

And in Europia United, no less.

Such was his second revelation. And although more expected given his new environment's gaudy architecture, he was by no means complacent. Britannia's antithesis, despite being the object of his admiration throughout his younger years, felt distinctly alien. And it certainly didn't help that its ideals of democracy were overshadowed by bureaucratic tape and corruption.

Ultimately, however, such epiphanies couldn't leave him melancholic forever. Code, although remarkable for its survivability, made him a target in this situation. And, although his purpose was overwritten by another, his distaste for the Ragnarok Connection had remained largely unperturbed.

It was only natural, then, that the route to assimilation would maintain certain familiarities. Additional currency remained the fastest path to a European citizenship – even if the means were less than legal – and, as such, lucrative gambling habits resurfaced. Soon, the few British pounds in his wallet had become a significant sum in Euros. And, in turn, he gained his fair share of connections and animosity.

The first instance of the latter had, naturally, occurred in an underground venue, A few losers, jaded after losing to an 'arrogant' Britannian, had sought to recover their losses with less than peaceful means. And, despite being capable of defending himself, the experience acted as a watermark for future endeavors.

Simply seeing the spasms. The screams of men whose minds were violated with a touch. It struck a hauntingly nostalgic chord that unnerved his very core.

The handgun, therefore, had acted as an alternative. It had been out of no small effort on his part to obtain – Britannian blood was, if anything, an inhibitor – but avoiding an aspect of immortality's curse had given him a certain peace of mind. Nevertheless, such fortune was only temporary, and while Code plagued him little in terms of characteristic, sentimentality persisted. If he had stooped so low as to find comfort in a firearm, and for reasons other than safety no less, what did that say about his sanity?

Truthfully, he had already known the answer. With the suffocation of seclusion, once usual pursuits had become joyless. Violet orbs dismissed both novels and tribunes alike. Gambling exploits found themselves more annoying than satisfying. Even chess – ever the Imperial family's passion – had begun to offer less and less emotional reward.

By living a life of the ordinary, he sacrificed the extraordinary. And although at one point he had wished for nothing more, the mind he possessed was not fit for such inactivity. It needed excitement. Melodrama, to survive. And without proper motivation of will, he could only resort to physical distractions.

It had been on one such outing, several months after his arrival, that he was handed a rather ornate political flyer. Bradow von Breisgau, the golden lettering read, was hosting a rally against European decadence, and had invited all walks of life to come and support.

He, of course, had heard of the man in the photo. Breisgau was a name synonymous with 'assemblyman' and, although he was no Zero, the similarities in both ideology and background were remarkable. They were both of the Britannian aristocracy. They were both charismatic demagogues. They were both empathetic with the cause of the weak.

But, as his own experiences reflected, The Man of Miracles had never been an idealist.

And as he walked from that street corner with a new sense of purpose in his steps, Lelouch couldn't help but chuckle at his own zeal.

It had been a long time, after all, since his curiosity was peaked.

He found his arrival to be uneventful – just another face in a diverse sea of proponents. The rally seemed to have a surprising temperance toward prejudices in European society, and kind, curious, and genuine expressions acted as a refreshing change to the expected antipathy.

In the minutes following his assimilation, he'd experienced almost exactly what he'd hoped for from Europe's most infamous rebel rouser. A down to earth personality that garnered support without manipulation. A charismatic rhetoric that drew even the most reclusive to applause. He'd even, to an extent, expected the critical antagonists that lay in the background of the assembly. A testament to his internal problems as both Emperor and Zero.

What he hadn't expected was the extent of the factional contrast, especially when the actual opposition was considered. Aristocrats, despite being powerful, should have lacked the numbers to offer sizeable resistance. Yet as it seemed, Breisgau hadn't accounted for the effectiveness of extortion amongst his congregation.

The full extent of such issues would later be confirmed by way of passing conversation. As a more cynical patron put it, "Breisgau's balancing act only makes for a superficial unity." And indeed, by replacing intrinsic social connections with promises of economic egalitarianism, there were more than enough holes for corruption. A simple bribe, after all, served well as a sort of instant gratification.

He supposed it wasn't all Bresigau's fault, however. By approaching the problem of disunity idealistically, there were only so many options to choose from. It was the very reason why he'd had reservations at first about Zero's successorship. About Euphemia's Special Administrative Zone. And even, in a darker point of his life, about Nunnally's gentle world.

It would only be after Breisgau's speech neared to a close that he considered accompliceship as a possible solution.

It was strange, he supposed, that he had even considered such a thing. There was, in fact, a time that he vowed to bear the curse of geass alone. Yet with his own wisdom, combined with the man's quixotic hopes and dreams, he could only wonder if Breigsau could accelerate his past self's goals – even without Requiem.

It was during these hypothetical musings – and they were certainly hypothetical – that Lelouch had noticed a white cloaked man shove his way amongst the crowd, with a leather briefcase in one arm, before pausing in front of a small clearing. He would have dismissed the interloper's entrance as nothing more than melodramatic fashion sense – as did many others – if not for the fact that paranoia had proved a reliable, if not unfailing instinct in the past.

And, while he had envisioned many plausible scenarios pre-investigation, the sight he beheld on the man's person was decidedly not what he expected.

A golden necklace with the insignia of a bird in flight.

He could barely let out a curse before the first explosion shook the courtyard – a red hot fireball that quickly enveloped the cobblestone expanse. Pain and anguish soon became the prevalent emotions amongst the crowd, and while the shockwave's shrapnel still dug sharply into his skin, the robed man – now outfitted with a firearm – wasn't waiting for him to finish hesitating.

Biting back a grimace of pain, Lelouch took a step back to brace himself. Then, two gunshots rung through the air.

Only one, however, was his own.

The crash of skin upon stone brought him little comfort, and as he looked toward the area that the deceased gunman aimed, his apprehension was only inflamed. Breisgau, the man who had turned European politics on its head, had crumpled to the ground – and the majority of his security detail was nowhere to be seen. Only two figures, both of which he had inferred to be women, were sprinting away from center stage.

Biting back another curse, Lelouch's eyes shifted to survey the chaos around him – the dilemma causing his indecision becoming more apparent by the second. Parisian military men, without knowledge of geass, would be hard-pressed to catch any of the gunman's co-conspirators. Yet at the same time, the lack of ambulance sirens also foretold the fate of the only visible survivors.

It was a debate between pragmatism and emotion if he had ever seen one. And while his psyche had naturally leaned toward the former, a second glance toward the fleeing party made him freeze in his tracks. The smaller woman, now more clearly defined as a child, had both curly, blonde hair and light violet eyes. Features he had once associated with…

Nunnally vi Britannia.

Expectedly, his hesitation only lasted another second after that.

"Leila…"

A girl, no more than nine, lay struggling in the snow – the carnage of a car wreck contrasting the otherwise serene environment.

"Mama?"

The girl's mother, hair messy from caked blood, struggled to pull her leg from the crumpled car door. A gas fire, after all, was slowly cutting the pair off from each other.

"Leila… honey. I need you to listen to me, okay?"

A final, failed tug spoke more than words could ever dream of. And as the woman ceased her struggle, a resigned smile came about her delicate features.

"You need to run."

"R-run?"

The child finally managed to rise from her fall and, when she did, widened eyes met those of surrender.

"Yes Leila. I need you… to get away from here."

A frozen stare lasted for another precious second before transforming into a vehement headshake.

"N-no! I won't just leave you here!"

The smell of smoke was slowly becoming all the more overpowering. And once the mother's fit of coughing died down, her façade began to show cracks of desperation.

"Please… just do as you're told."

"No! I won't do it!"

"Leila…"

"I won't-"

"Leila!"

The woman's lamenting shout quickly silenced the girl, the latter finally having noticed the tears in the former's eyes.

"I don't want you to suffer the same fate your father did."

A choked gasp emitted from the child's throat – lips having been pursed with raw emotion. Then, with a hard blink, her resolution was revived.

"F-fine. I'll… go get help! Just make sure you stay safe, okay?"

The girl's mother took a relieved breath, her smile being both artificial and genuine at the same time.

"Of course. Now get going."

The child nodded slightly before taking off, her breath shaky all the while. And, as the still collapsed woman watched that figure disappear from her sight, she could only hope that the latter wouldn't stop running.

Though little did she know, two others were already close on her tail.

Tracking footprints, C.C had learned, was an undertaking that never ended well.

Of course, it wasn't the principle itself that was flawed. Her proficiency at the task, after all, was never really in doubt. It was simply the psychological or, rather, the nostalgic part of her that ruined the affair. The silent walks making reflections surface without any real, conscious effort.

And this time, unfortunately, had been no different.

Granted, she had been quick to reminded herself that she never directly approved of V.V's plan. His brainchild, the Genesis Program, was something that she had simply perceived to be a work-in-progress. An experiment aimed at impressing her, the Geass Order's Director. Yet even so, when the boy had walked into her office, lips tight and full of tension, she had still felt a sense of self-deprecation that overpowered her emotional callouses.

Anger.

Anger toward the political consequences of an assemblyman's assassination. Anger toward the planned assimilation of child geass users without sanction. And anger toward the fact that the target in question reminded her all too much of a hopeless servant girl, lost at the church's doorstep.

"… Tch."

It may have been, now that she looked at it again, that her actions had been too childish for her age. Impulse was hardly something her nostalgia had any right to aggravate, and even now she was much too tired and much too selfish to play the role of a mother. Yet at the same time, the tenacity and determination oozing from each footprint she had tracked had to be worth something in respect. Something in admiration.

Something in love.

Perhaps then, if her newfound maternal bias was any indication, declaring a special interest in Leila Breisgau and, by extension, revoking V.V's authority, had been the right choice after all.

But as she brought her attention from reminiscence and back to the current scene before her, she could only think of how unexpectedness had ruined any of her potential contrivances.

Two figures, one easily identifiable, and one less so, appeared to be sitting across from a fire along the banks of a frozen pond. Leila, so it seemed, was hardly exhausted from her run in the forest, appearing to retain some – if not all – of her dynamism, despite the occasional flicker of angst. An earth brown blanket, too, had wrapped itself around her, radiating life amongst a world of white.

The opposing figure, on the other hand, served as an almost perfect antithesis to the former. His lanky frame and slouched position, although unexceptional, seemed to give off a weariness beyond his apparent years. Whereas his visage of absolute calm, while laced with bits of concern, appeared to hide secrets that were best left unspoken.

Secrets, she suspected, that had to do with his almost supernatural aura.

"Now then, since you've finally warmed up, would you be willing to give me your name?"

The man's position shifted slightly, the flames dancing across his face having exposed the earnestness of the inquiry. Now that she had a better look at him though, she couldn't help but notice the uncanny resemblance he shared with Marianne's girl – Alexis. The fair complexion. The raven locks.

The amethyst eyes.

"My… name?"

Leila's brows furrowed slightly, her eyes glazed over amongst a mix of concentration and suspicion. Finally, she spoke.

"How about you tell me yours first."

For a second, the man almost looked taken aback, as if not expecting the wariness coming from the newly orphaned girl. Perhaps C.C too would have lightly laughed at the display, if not for her own desire to learn more about the enigma in front of her.

Though then again, no amount of curiosity would have ever prepared her for his response.

"Very well. My name is Lelouch Lamperouge."

A/N: Alright so here it is. The first chapter of one of my experimental projects. Thank you to S. Silea for inspiring my initial characterization of Lelouch. It was one of the most brilliant I've ever seen, and I couldn't help but draw in some elements from "Topple Your Kings."

In any case though, a few notes to consider for this story. As one might have noticed, the ages here are a bit different from canon. This was done purposefully as, in the original series, many of the main character's ideals were forged by the time they were 10. To me, this seems like too early of an age to make such a defining decision and, as such, I've made every character three years older than they would have been originally. (ie. by time of Marianne's assassination in 2009atb, the main characters will be 13). And yes, that means certain elements, such as Ashford Academy, will be treated differently. Hope this acts as a refreshing change of pace!