Chapter 1: Lelouch

"Thinking about something?" C.C. asked.

"Always, Auntie."

C.C. wrinkled her nose and sank back into the seat's leather cushions. She clinked her spoon against the sides of her teacup as she stirred in a quadruple serving of sugar.

"You know I don't like it when you call me that," she said.

"Which is precisely why I do it so often," I replied.

C.C. rolled her eyes–the immortal witch's equivalent of a "Do Not Disturb" sign. My gaze drifted to the car's window. I needn't have bothered; the white stripes on the walls of the Geofront's conveyor belt passed us with monotonous precision, like lines on a roadway. I heard the flit of a page being turned, and groaned.

"Don't tell me you brought one of your cheap romance novels," I said.

The window reflected C.C.'s shrug.

"If you must know, it's more like a comic book," she said. "One of the few pieces of Eleven culture that Britannia didn't suppress after Second Impact. The natives call it–"

"Manga," I finished. "I know. I did my research too."

"You were always such a diligent little boy," she said.

"Your condescension is noted. And speaking of work..."

She didn't reply. I should have known better. As far as C.C.'s concerned, long pauses in conversations are good for only one thing: staring at you with a bored expression until you get fed up and finish your sentence.

"You know, it's customary to respond with something like 'go on'," I said.

C.C. permitted herself a tiny smirk.

"I learned a long time ago to never feed a junkie," she said.

I shot her a dirty look, which she also ignored. At last, I sighed.

"Okay," I said. "I'll spell it out for you. This car ride is probably the last unbugged conversation we'll have for a while."

"And...?"

"And I want your assessment of the situation."

C.C. smiled, a sight which gave me a brief (and, at the time, unacknowledged) feeling of contentment. Her smiles had always been a rare, like four-leafed clovers or white roses. When I'd first met her, C.C.'s smiles had half lives measured in fractions of seconds. Seven years and thousands of knowing smirks later, they occasionally managed to stick around. In my whimsical moments, I like to think that my sparkling personality had done the trick. When I'm sober, I put it down to a defense mechanism. Only two things in the universe can save you from a ten-year-old Lelouch: a sense of humor or a storeroom of industrial strength Ritalin.

After seven years, she'd developed the former.

"Surely my ears deceive me," she said. "The Great Lelouch vi Britannia, conqueror of Area Eighteen, condescends to ask–?"

"Oh, shut up, C.C."

She pouted and smoothed the pleats in her skirt.

"Oh fine," she said. "I think your father made a mistake in sending you here. The situation's...dangerous."

I crossed my arms defensively. It was unconscious gesture: my least favorite kind. C.C. raised an eyebrow to signal that she'd seen it, just as she'd done a thousand times during my posture training in my youth. "Too theatrical" had been the kinesic anthropologist's verdict.

Guilty as charged

"In case you haven't noticed," I said, "I've been dealing with dangerous situations ever since my first food taster died."

C.C. gave me a dismissive wave.

"Britannian court politics are child's play," she said.

She must have seen my shoulders tighten, since her voice took on a slightly conciliatory tone when she continued:

"Before you get angry, bear in mind that I know you're clever. That isn't the question. There's something you need to understand about NERV: They may not have eugenic pedigrees stretching back fifty generations, but they're also very clever, and they've been playing this game a lot longer than you have."

I did my best to laugh knowingly.

"Mom already gave me this speech," I said. "Like I said, my parents think I can handle it, so what has you so worried?"

C.C. crumpled a packet of sugar and tossed it into the back seat. Her eyes narrowed a fraction.

"Marianne has a nasty habit of optimism," she said. "And your father moreso."

I listened to the squeak of my skin against leather upholstery as I dragged my fingertips across the armrest. After a couple seconds, I looked up again and shrugged.

"Worked well enough for them," I said.

"They're an Emperor and the best pilot in history, respectively. You're a low-ranking prince facing off against the world's most powerful nonstate entity, headed by the most devious Eleven since Odo Nobunaga."

"Ah, but I have you with me," I said, and flashed her a smile.

This time, she didn't reciprocate.

The conveyor belt groaned. I looked out the window to see what the matter was and found myself face to face with the most incredible sight I'd ever encountered. The Geofront formed an enormous basin, miles wide, closed to the surface by a giant dome that sprouted upside-down buildings like stalactites. Yet the whole thing was bathed in gold light. It shimmered on the skyscrapers' glass from long vents in the ceiling. The city looked like the poets' Samarkand sprung to life.

"I've never known you to be easily impressed," C.C. said.

The sarcastic edge to her voice completely slipped past me.

"I...yeah, I guess not..."

Three meter wide cables stretched from one end of the crater to the other like gigantic piano wires. At the center stood a pyramid, too large and smooth to get confused with its Egyptian predecessors. Other buildings–houses, schools, hospitals–straggled in clumps around it. A forest bloomed in the gaps.

"It is rather impressive," C.C. conceded.

I nodded.

"...But you asked my advice."

"Eh?" I said. "Oh, yeah..."

With great reluctance, I tore myself away from the window.

"Tell me about the pilots," I said.

Instead of answering, she rummaged in her purse and pulled out three glossy photographs, which she laid on the table. The boy caught my eye first. His tense face seemed as if it had been constructed around a pair of deep solemn eyes. Even his picture appeared to twitch.

"I've seen this photo before," I said. "Tell me something I don't know."

"Like what?"

I fought down the urge to grumble. Even as we approached Tokyo-3, C.C. couldn't resist the urge to keep me sharp...and probably critique me afterwards if I missed a crucial question. She had a point, I guess.

"Tell me about his relationship with his father," I said.

She tapped her cheek for a moment.

"Hard to say. Ostensibly terrible–Gendo abandoned him briefly as a child after his mother died. On the other hand..."

She trailed off as if hesitant to venture into the murkier waters of speculation.

"Go on."

"We suspect his desire for attachment is a major motivating factor," she said.

"Just attachment to his father, or is it generalized?"

C.C. looked up from her novel.

"You're asking if you could assume a surrogate brother role?" she asked.

"Of course."

She laid her book on the tray in front of her and hit the "recline" button. For the next few seconds, she retreated into the private world of her thoughts that I'd always known better than to interrupt. Her foot brushed the dashboard.

"Hard to know," she said. "Gendo's prepped him well. It would take some finagling."

Gendo. Despite my bravado, I felt the creep of unease at the name. As far as I knew, everybody in the Royal family had that reaction, except Dad. Maybe. On paper, Gendo was every Eleven's dream: a local boy who'd risen from the Tokyo streets to head the most powerful organization in the world. He was the only Eleven to stand up to Schneizel and win, and he'd filled Tokyo-3 to the brim with Eleven staff. The Geofront was his personal fiefdom, the only place in the world where an Eleven could call himself Japanese and believe it.

But there were cracks in the story, for those who cared to look. If the Geofront staff appreciated their benefactor, they also feared him. Even with the censorship wall that hung around Tokyo-3, I'd heard the stories: disappearances in the middle of the night. "Specialists" from Chile and the Ukraine who wouldn't say what they specialized in. People who found microphones in their walls and were too afraid to remove them.

...And then there was Clovis. He'd died in a bombing a month after he'd stuck his ever-curious nose into NERV affairs. Cornelia and I had recommended reducing Tokyo-3 to rubble. Dad had done nothing.

I muttered a silent prayer for Lloyd to hurry up on the Jetalot project. (Don't blame me for the name; it was Lloyd's idea. Apparently, 'Jet Alone' and 'Lancelot' aren't good enough individually).

"Glum already?" C.C. asked.

"I was born glum."

She shrugged as if to say, Well, you have a point.

"You'll have friends, you know," she said.

"Eh?"

"Ashford Academy," she said with a little sniff. "They relocated it to Tokyo-3."

I rolled my eyes.

"I'm the Britannian attache to the Evangelion project, witch. Not a schoolboy."

The edge of her mouth quirked slightly upward.

"Your mother begs to differ."

"Yeah, right," I said. "Because the prospect of assassination is so much less terrifying than going into the working world without a good resume."

The sarcasm bounced off C.C. like a dart against an AT field.

"Precisely," she said drily. "I'm glad that you and I see eye to eye on this--"

"I mean really," I continued. "What'll I be able to tell my future employers? 'Oh, sorry I don't get an education. I was too busy wasting my time conquering Area Eighteen and beating zillion-foot-tall aliens.'"

"Now you're just being obnoxious."

I waved her off and turned back to the window. We'd descended close to the tree level. Tokyo-3 no longer looked like an assembly of matchbox cars and dollhouses.

"Feeling overworked already?" C.C. taunted.

"Hardly."

"Ah. Then you won't be interested in my little deal, then..."

I jerked away from the window faster than Euphie racing toward a kitten. C.C. looked innocently upward and picked at the ceiling with her fingernails.

"What 'deal'?" I asked.

"Oh, just mind control," she said. "But since you're not interested..."

"I lied," I said. "I always lie."

C.C. stroked her chin.

"Then how do I know you're not lying now, mmmm?"

I pointed a finger at her.

"Don't you dare, C.C."

In my intemperate youth, I'd discovered language paradoxes and tried them out on C.C. Unfortunately, I'd overlooked one crucial fact: as an immortal, she had a lot more patience to torment me with them than vice-versa. After years of enduring my pranks ("honestly, C.C., I have no idea why your pizza tastes like motor oil"), she'd grabbed the opportunity with both hands. The fun had continued until I woke up screaming "I know you know I know" in the middle of the night.

C.C. leaned away from me and stared out the window.

"So are you interested, or...?"

"I'm interested," I said.

"There are...strings...attached," she said.

As usual.

"I refuse to give you my credit cards again," I said.

C.C.'s eyes fell to the rubber at the window's base. Her mouth hovered between a frown and a smirk before settling on a sad little smile.

"No, nothing like that," she said. "I'll tell you when the time comes."

In my experience, a lot in life comes down to trust. C.C. had never told me about her past, or explained the minor detail of why she never aged. Yet for all that...well, let's just say you'd understand if you grew up with the woman.

"Okay," I said, and knew that I would regret it.

Jeremiah met us in a NERV tunnel. Martinet that he was, he'd arranged our small military contingent–all six of them–into an honor guard. I smiled.

"Jeremiah "

He stiffened at my hand on his shoulder, and subtly nodded his head toward the troops. Villeta was trying very hard to avoid rolling her eyes, and Kewell was beet-red with empathic embarassment. I didn't care. Screw protocol.

"How have you been?" I said.

He remained stiff as a board.

"I am well, your Majesty. And thee?"

Thee?

Britannia reserves the second-person-formal for only the most sensitive of occasions. Picture a beggar talking to a prince in the middle of a military review while the prince is reading a particularly tricky passage of Shakespeare and you get a good idea. Or when Dad talks to his kids.

That's when I noticed that the members of the honor guard were fidgeting and casting uneasy looks at the passing Eleven staff. I'd seen the reaction before in Area 18; always during sieges. I detached my hand from Jeremiah and crossed it behind my back.

Time for some playacting...

"Quite well," I said. "I congratulate you on your troops' fine turnout, Lord Jeremiah. Might we proceed to meet our hosts?"

He bowed so low that it hurt my hamstrings watching him.

"Of course, Your Majesty."

I'd expected to meet Gendo in his office, and had almost been looking forward to it. As soon as I'd heard about the sparse, cold room with its Qabbalistic symbols and ability to make men quake in their boots, I'd resolved to get some pictures so I could redesign my own office accordingly. Alas, it was not to be. I ran into Gendo in the most un-dramatic steel hallway imaginable. I held out a hand.

"Commander Ikari," I said. "Pleased to meet you."

The two women standing next to him bowed. I recognized them. One wore a red NERV jacket and a skirt too short for a woman of her years, which I guessed to be late twenties. Her black hair carried an odd hint of purple. The other had a labcoat and could only be described as a "bottle blond"...if I was feeling cliche, that is, which I'm not. How does "chemically induced auricomy" strike you?

No?

Bottle blond it is, then.

Gendo stared down at my hand as if I'd just cleaned out a sewer with it. I left it hanging for a few more seconds, then lowered it again.

Two can play at that game.

I gave him my most obnoxious smirk and looked him up and down as if I was appraising a new fighter jet. Aside from indulging my natural insolence, it gave me an opportunity to get a closer look at my new host. He stood around my height, which was still pretty short, but he was heavy around the shoulders and had a sturdy blockiness to him. I found myself looking from Jeremiah to Gendo and back again. Jeremiah was tall and trim, with the gymnast's poise that came from years at a fencing salle. A "killing gentleman", as we call them in Britannia. Gendo was missing the second part. The beginning of a double chin already poked out from his collar, although he'd tried to hide it with a beard. His nose had a crooked knob in the center. Someone had broken it. He also wasn't above hiding his graying hairs with dye, but he was too lazy to pick the right shade. Beefy hands clenched in their gloves when he realized what I was doing. It evoked visions of brass knuckles and tire irons.

This was a man who made a purple suit look intimidating.

And then, without a word, he turned on his heel and walked off. Ritsuko nodded to us and followed him.

"Katsuragi?" I said.

The NERV operations director paused halfway between us and the other side of the hallway.

"I understand that the Children already nixed a couple of Angels," I said. "I'd like the tapes sent up to my room. The uncensored versions, if you don't mind."

She turned and glared at me. I swear I saw a vein popping out of her forehead.

"You're not in Britannian sovereign territory anymore, prince," she said. "Elevens don't take orders as easily around here."

"Nevertheless, the Freedom of Information Agreement requires that you cooperate," C.C. said.

Misato looked at my companion as if seeing her for the first time. Her eyes snapped to the slits on the sides of C.C.'s black dress. I breathed a silent sigh of relief that she'd chosen not to wear her Swiss-goldilocks-dress-and-tiny-hat combo.

"Who are you, kid?" Misato said. "The girlfriend?"

C.C.'s face remained impassive.

"The aunt, apparently," she said. "And what I said is true regardless."

Misato gritted her teeth, jerked her head once in a nod, and stalked after Gendo. C.C. didn't wait for her to leave before commenting.

"What an irritating woman," she said.

Misato stopped at the end of the hallway. I saw her shoulders rise and fall as she took a breath. She closed a door.

"Did you see that?" I said.

"What?"

"That vein in her head. Do veins even do that?"

C.C. stood a moment in silent contemplation.

"You know," she said, stroking her cheek, "I don't think they do."