Coup d'�tat

November 1st, 2022 a.t.b.

The coronation was scheduled for the fifth of the month. Lelouch had taken one look at the etiquette books and declared that they were not going to use any of that rubbish. In fact, if Suzaku was not mistaken, the volumes were currently being used to start the fires in the study they were sitting in.

Away from prying eyes, Lelouch liked to plant himself in his armchair in front of the fireplace as the days grew colder. Suzaku joked that he only needed a rug over his knees and fluffy slippers to complete the picture.

“The offer to Britannian citizens to return to Britannia proper or stay in their current countries of residence has been made public since last week . . .” Lelouch prodded his tablet with the stylus as he called up various reports from the interim government. He had kept most of the existing infrastructure after culling out suspected royalists and trimming the excess fat from the administrative positions--and how Lelouch had bitched about just how many unnecessary posts there were due to nepotism and cronyism. Former members of the Order of the Black Knights rounded off the motley crew that was holding the largest Empire one earth together. Held together “mostly with duct tape and glue” was the popular joke going around the offices at the moment. “Not all applications have been counted yet . . .”

“And the results of that?” Suzaku was taking an hour away from reviewing field reports to indulge in a cup of afternoon tea--a habit he had picked up from his years as an Honorary Britannian. No strangely-flavoured riceballs this time, thank goodness.

“Eighty percent of the overseas population applied to return. Around ten percent are staying and the rest are refusing to answer.” Lelouch looked amused at the statistics. “It seems that my countrymen are not so blind to the way the wind is blowing. Or about their own popularity in the former Areas.”

There had been reports. Scattered incidents of violence against Britannians by former Numbers. The Britannians were not the only ones who were feeling the effects of the change.

“Efforts by local agencies and human rights organisations to stop anti-Britannian violence have been sporadic at best,” Lelouch continued. “No fatalities so far. That counts as a miracle in its own right.”

“That would explain the high rate of returning Britannians?” There were very few who hated Britannia and all it stood for with the passion of the exiled prince, but from his experience on the war front, Suzaku knew that buried resentments were often more volatile. There had been whole generations raised to hate their Britannian overlords.

“They are willing to return and throw themselves on your mercy, perhaps,” Lelouch said, smirking. “You might be the lesser of two evils after the coronation.”

Just declaring the former Areas independent would not do. He might as well just jump up yelling Nippon Banzai! The chances of opening the floodgates for anti-Britannian sentiments were too high. So Lelouch, with his overworked team of translators and diplomatic go-betweens, had wrangled his way to an alternative arrangement with the temporary governing bodies through all the channels he could find. After the coronation, there would be formal petitions presented by respective parties from each country. All Suzaku would have to do was to agree to them and the thorny issue of whoever was beholden to whoever would be sidestepped, the potential loss of face to Britannia reduced and the real issues like electing their new leaders could actually begin.

“Then there’s the matter of that . . .”

They looked at the newest message tube, perched on a tray alone like a particularly unsavoury Swiss roll. Arthur had grown fond of playing with the ribbons that bound the missives, but he had taken one sniff at this new tube and scuttled away. The contents were equally unpalatable.

Kururugi Suzaku,

Relinquishing sovereignty of any Area will be considered an open declaration of war. Your alliance with our traitorous brother has not gone unnoticed . . .

“Schneizel doesn’t make idle threats.” Lelouch frowned, obviously going through all the possible scenarios in his head. “Assuming that he has the resources, it could be an all-out war.”

It would take more than just a threat to make them back down, now that they had come this far.

“We will have to deal with him eventually.” Suzaku hoped that there would not be another war. They were just recovering from the previous one. It had been a miracle that the casualty-count had remained so low. The element of surprise had been on their side and they--Lelouch had, at Suzaku’s insistence--had chosen their battlefields deliberately to minimise injury to non-combatants.

The other man had argued that that had been no way to wage a war, but he had done his level best to make it a bloodless coup. Lelouch had complained that Suzaku wanted to fight in every battle just to ensure that the combat did not spill over the imaginary boundaries they had set.

But he had accepted that power and he had a responsibility to finish what he had started.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

August, 2010 a.t.b.

After a while, the roads started look the same. Suzaku had to depend on the road signs to figure out where they were. His companion was of no help when it came to directions.

She stayed about a metre or two behind him as they walked. Suzaku turned every now and then to check and she was always there like a silent shadow.

They met others along the road. People from the rural towns and farms who had lost their homes in one way or other because of the aerial battles. More than one group who had left their vehicles by the roadside when they had finally ran out of petrol. All of them looked like they had been putting one foot in front of the other, walking on in the hope that help was just over the next rise. They did not speak very much as they slogged on, wariness evident on every face present.

From the road signs, Suzaku estimated that they had travelled just over ten kilometres by foot that day by the time they reached the outskirts of another city. It was close to evening when they passed under the remains of a broken flyover and saw the signs posted along the broken road.

Relief workers were gathered at the harbour side, picking up refugees and survivors. There would be medical aid for injured parties. Arrows posted amongst the ruins pointing the way.

The pace picked up at once as everyone realised that the endless walk was coming to an end. As they neared the edge of the city closet to the harbour, they started to take more risks, threading their way through narrow streets to take the shortest possible route. This close to the harbour, the buildings had sustained the most damage from the aerial and naval attacks.

The relief workers--overworked and understaffed--had recognised the danger but could barely spare the manpower to direct people along the safer roads. A couple of them were hurrying towards the latest ragtag band of Japanese refugees. It was too late to turn them back--all they could do was to urge them to move out of the danger zone.

It happened as they were passing under the shadow of a twelve-storey block of flats that was missing its four uppermost levels. The damaged structure suddenly groaned like an animal in pain. On the shattered road, the refugees looked up in alarm at the noise.

They started to run just as the building shuddered violently. Suzaku was reminded of the strongest earthquake he had experienced when he had been five. Only this was no earthquake. This was the death throes of a city.

Everything seemed to happen all at once. The people in the distance were waving frantically at them, but Suzaku could not hear what they were shouting. Not over the tortured roar of masonry coming apart over their heads. The skeleton of steel girders issued a final tormented squeal and the building seemed to lean over like a winded runner.

Various parts of the structure seemed to hang in the air for a moment--then chaos descend upon them. Suzaku felt the ground shift under his feet and the world upended suddenly.

After a disorientating interval, he opened his eyes to find himself sprawled face-first on the asphalt. Had he fallen down? Why was everything suddenly green?

She had fallen over him and he was swimming in the shroud of her long green hair for a moment before he could turn over and realise what had happened.

“Oi . . . Miss?”

Struggling to get up from under her, he tried to move her as well. It was then that he saw the massive chunks of rubble and glass that had fallen and pinned her legs down.

“Hey . . . get up, we have to get out of here . . .” Suzaku tugged at her arm helplessly as blood started to seep out from under her body. This was not happening--it could not be happening. They had just found the relief effort. “Wake up! Wake up please!”

But a part of him knew that it was too late for her. Too late for the middle-aged man who had been crushed by the debris a mere three metres to his right. Too late for the woman who had been carrying her child as she had tried to run for safety--they lay together in an ungainly sprawl amidst the glass shards of what had been a large window.

Why did he survive? When everyone else had died? He had been useless--

Her hand twitched in his grasp and Suzaku heard her voice for the first time.

“If you want the power to save others, then I’ll make a contract with you,” she said.

He did not know how she was talking to him--she just was.

“You have to open yourself to me.”

And she was there with him, on the night when he had stood with his teacher’s sword in his hand over his father’s body. She was there with him on the road when the masked men had tried to take Lelouch. She was one of the corpses on the bombed and devastated field--all the people he could not save.

All of this, he had to make right. Somehow. For it was not right that he had survived when the others had died.

“Grant my one wish, and I will give you the power you need.” They were once again standing over his father’s corpse in a dark room, a sheathed blade between them.

Suzaku hesitated then. “Not for myself. Never for myself.”

She extended her hand to him. “That is for you to decide. But you will have to live long enough to use it. Choose now.”

Time seemed to slow as he reached out.

The blade slide out of its sheath.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

She had not meant to do it. She had not meant to give the power to the boy.

After all she had learned the hard way about granting the power to children younger than this.

But he had wanted the same thing she did and he was one of the strongest potential acceptors she had found.

Normal people influenced their environment to a certain extent but this one--this boy who was barely ten years old--altered the world around him by merely existing. There had been people in the past, the witch knew, who made history because events were drawn to them the way iron filings were to a magnet. They had all been, without exception, potential candidates for the power that was her one gift and sole curse.

It had been made all the more obvious when he alone survived the collapse of the building. Chance and circumstance had changed.

If she had been in a more honest mood, she might have acknowledged that destiny had thrown her his way and chance had created the opportunity for her to make that offer once again.

In a million other worlds, he had refused.

* * * * * * * * * * * *