Prologue: Lelouch

I was expelled from the royal family at ten years old and lived as a political hostage for the next seven. After an encounter with an immortal witch, I acquired a mind-control eye and started a terrorist movement. In the ensuing months, I battled giant robots, princes, misguided peace activists, telepaths, more giant robots, and a perverted class president.

And then, on November fifth, my life got weird.

I was reorganizing my personnel files at the time. Hardly glamorous, but 90% of a rebellion is paperwork and planning. The pictures loaded slowly, beginning as amorphous pixilated blobs that morphed into faces just as my eyes blurred. The white background made me squint. I tapped "enter".

Only six-thousand-seven-hundred-and-fifty-three to go…

A TV droned in the background with father's latest address—the same Social Darwinist slop I'd heard ad infinitum before I left Britannia and far too often thereafter. I rubbed my eyes. Little bits of sand had already formed on the lids.

"Lelouch."

"Don't bother—"

"Now."

I swiveled my chair around and prepared to give C.C. a death glare that wouldn't work, but would make me feel slightly better.

Then I saw the television.

Father's body had curled over the podium. Sweat glinted on his forehead, reflecting light from the stage lamps above him. He clutched his chest. The microphone caught his heavy panting and amplified it as he leaned closer, until the breaths sounded like someone hammering sheet metal. My father vomited. News cameras flashed to capture the moment for posterity. Father's hands clutched at the podium in a vain attempt to hold his thick, fat body upright…

…And then Charles zi Britannia--the 98th Emperor, Ard-Ri, King of Kings, Father of His Country, Defender of the Faith--slumped. The crowd screamed. C.C. crunched a potato chip.

The camera jerked back and forth as two voices argued over what to do. One wanted to shut the program off. The other—

The camera stopped moving. It was pointing at the ground, so I didn't see the events that triggered the panicked exodus from the hall; but I could hear the footfalls. Someone righted the camera again. Perhaps he was one of the two men I'd heard arguing. More likely he was one of the endless line of nobodies who've collectively recorded most of human history.

And what a scene he captured.

Odysseus was sprawled on the floor. Guinevere lay a short distance from him. She still had her rose tattoo, and I reflected how strange it was that I'd noticed it after all those years. Royal guards scampered from body to body like confused ants, as if looking busy would bring back the dead.

The Knights of Rounds scanned the ceilings. They pivoted. They swished their capes. They pointed their pistols at nothing in particular and made wild arm motions that looked vaguely like "evacuate". In short, they did all the pointless things that Britannian knights do when they have no idea what they're up against. Schneizel stood against the far wall, staring at the wreckage.

The channel blacked out.

"Uh…what…?" I said.

"I concur," said C.C.

Delivered to the Britannian News Network Building, 2017 a.t.b.

You were warned.

It should be clear by now that Britannia's security services cannot protect the royal family from my judgments. For now, I will be satisfied if you stop censoring reports of my activities in the news media. More instructions will follow.

If you attempt to track me down, I will erase every inbred one of you.

--KIRA