"Mariko."
She never expected to find a human she couldn't kill.
"Come on, it's freezing out," he says. His brittle arms reach to lift her, to bring her close to his chest and into a warm embrace. "You'll catch your death."
Wide eyes stare up at him, tainted like blood and roses. Pink locks of hair dance around her young features, catching in the cool wind.
She focuses a single vector, tense and recoiled, and just as his hand is about to graze her own, Mariko sends it lurching forward. It tears through the weak flesh, breaking rib, and severing muscle. The fool laughs even as she decimates his feeble body.
The Diclonius grins as she claims her prize, the man's still beating heart. She dangles it in front of him, watching it pulsate, and ooze crimson liquid, shriveling to husk with her hands' touch.
He collapses before her, to his knees with a smile, dark eyes lit with life. His last breath is a murmured chuckle, lost to the air and the wind. White particles of breath fade in the current as if to signify his departure.
"…Moron," she whispers, after a moment of silence. She tosses the heart aside. It lands in the heavy snow. A bloody blackened paperweight stains the white snow red as it sinks into obscurity.
Mariko turns to leave, but finds her chair caught in the icy surface below. She summons a hand to free herself, peering over the edge of the chair to find the disturbance. She resists her natural inclination to shiver at the cold, instead hugging herself with her remaining physical arm.
The chair quite suddenly is dislodged; it tips, spilling the young girl into the icy snow. Unable to catch herself in time, Mariko lets out a small cry. Her physical body isn't accustomed to the cold, nor is it suited for any sort of strenuous circumstance, having been restrained since birth. Her hands lift her from the ground, right the chair, and set her in it, but they can do no more. The young girl is soaking wet, already numbing from her toes up, and dressed in only a sopping dress shirt and skirt. Hands are useful for all sorts of things, but they lack the capacity to provide warmth.
No, Vectors can't provide warmth, and Mariko is but a five year-old girl with the constitution of a newborn.
She never imagined it would end like this.
"Mariko."
He rises behind her, from his knees to his feet and is at her side in an instant. "What are you still doing out here? You're soaking."
Wide eyes stare up at him, tainted like blood and roses. Dark eyes return the look, lit to a cold violet, stained like bruises and ink and indigo. A single, small arm raises to him in a wordless invitation, and he lifts her onto his hip, zipping her into his jacket to shield her from the cold.
So Mariko lay there, snuggled up in his jacket and pressed against that warm, beating chest, a comfort she never expected to find. Not one thought of the man's sudden resurrection enters her mind; only that he is alive, and he is warm, so warm.
And she couldn't kill him if she tried.
"Lelouch," she mutters into the folds of his shirt. "You are such an idiot."
He chuckles and gingerly strokes her hair. His fingers weave around her horns without pause. "Is that a crime?" he asks playfully.
Mariko nods slightly, her eyes still closed. "One punishable by death," she yawns.
He laughs lightheartedly and grins at her. "I'd like to see you try."