Chapter One: Down the Rabbit Hole
There were three things that Lelouch vi Britannia hated admitting to anyone – not even to his sister or mother – and they were that he wrote romance novels for a living, that he had a rather… soft disposition towards cats, and that he was probably owner of the sweetest sweet tooth known to man in the 21st century. So when his agent had threatened to let the world know those very three facts, he very reluctantly found himself looking out the window of a taxi cab as he travelled from Baton Rouge to New Orleans the following morning.
He had been sent there for his own good, apparently, though he himself couldn't understand why. He had been fine in Manhattan – a little bored, but otherwise fine. And yet, his family and editor had somehow gotten into his head that he needed to get out and into the world a little more to "lift up his spirits and put a smile on that handsome face of yours." He hadn't gone so much for his own sake but rather to escape the constant nagging that had disturbed his peace for days on end with no sign of rest.
As he paid the driver, he glanced at the lobby boy, who had spotted his expensive watch and had decided to hover near him in hopes of being called upon. Ignoring him, he grabbed the handle of his small suitcase, slung his bag over his shoulder, and walked into the brightly lit and tastefully decorated hotel lobby. Milly had at least booked a hotel that had a chance of pleasing him. He shuddered to think about the one time he hadn't double-checked her planning and how he had ended up in the seediest motel the city of Paris had had to offer.
Most of the first day, he simply stay in the hotel, sitting at the bar or in the lounge or taking a smoking break in the courtyard garden. The second day, he finally ventured outside of the safety and comfort of his wealth. Bourbon Street was but a few minutes' walk away, and though he wasn't the type of person to seek out a street so marked with sin and the absence of inhibitions, he found himself strolling through in the twilight as the neon signs came to life one-by-one until he was flanked on both sides by a row of loud lights and the murmur that comes just before a tidal wave arrives to wash away the quiet. And sure enough, in a matter of minutes, the once-normal street had come to life with the help of the promise of alcohol and seductresses.
After a random turn here and there, and a few minutes more of walking, he seated himself in a lively, bustling café with a cup of coffee, a plate of sinfully powdered beignets, and a very curious cat that had followed him a few avenues away all the way to the café. His stalker had a silky coat of snow white fur, interrupted only by two bright emeralds for eyes, as if she had been dunked in a bowl of creamy white milk as a kitten. Just like the bowl that Lelouch set down by his feet for his unexpected walking companion who had been staring at him under the lamp-post ever since he had sat down.
It – she, he later learned – cautiously crept forward before deeming him no less of a threat than that of a mouse, and quietly lapped at the milk while the author partook in his snack to please his cravings for sweets. They sat in amicable silence for some time, even after the bowl, plate, and cup were empty, until she stood up. His eyes turning away from the square across the street, he watched as she stretched, looked at him for some time, before turning her nose up and haughtily strutting away, almost as if she had done him a service of providing him her company. Amused, he allowed the corner of his lips to quirk up into a shadow of a smile as she soon melted into the shadows of the old trees and beautiful architecture of the city. And when she was gone, he too left for bed, feeling odd and yet fulfilled all at the same time.
Beginning on the fourth evening, the cat took to waiting for him at the café under the lam-post. He would always take a seat outside and order a cup of black coffee, a plate of beignets, and some white milk, along with an extra bowl. Sometimes, when he was in a whimsical mood that evening, he'd tear off a small corner and offer it to the cat. He wasn't sure if cats were supposed to eat fried dough dusted in powdered sugar, but she always accepted his offering and as her stomach never made any complaints, he didn't see any reason why he couldn't. And on evenings when he was feeling especially whimsical, he spoke to her as if she were a human woman seated across from him. No one noticed because no one cared enough to listen in on the next table's conversation. Besides, Lelouch didn't care what others thought of him. Why should he? His name wasn't the name on the book covers and spines.
And of course, the cat never answered, until the 8th day, when he asked her if she didn't have a master. Because when he asked if she were an orphan, she stood up and slipped out between the iron-wrought fence and looked back, as if beckoning him to follow. Interest piqued (he had always been told as a child that his inability to control his curiosity would get him in trouble one day), he paid the tab and followed after her, her tail like a lantern in the dark. After about half an hour of twists and turns, he saw the cat slip into a small store. Putting his cigarette out, he walked in after, curious to see if the master would be just as strange as the pet.
He was not disappointed. Though he could find no trace of the cat, he did find a young woman with bright eyes and long green hair in its place. She was wearing a sooty top hat for no other apparent reason than because she simply wished to, all the while smoking a thin pipe crafted of wood and metal – like one of those pipes you would find in a Chinese opium den during the 1800s. She clearly wasn't supposed to be smoking, but even with his entry, she didn't move from relaxed position of her chin in one hand and her elbows spread out on the wooden counter of the bar she was standing besides.
"…Hello," he finally said.
"What do you need?"
Her voice was as clear as she was pretty, which surprised him. She was smoking in such a manner that suggested that she been doing so for several years. He would have expected her to speak with a fairly unattractive, raspy accent.
"Nothing. Your cat's been following me this past week or so, and the roles were reversed today. She brought me here."
"That's all very well, but what do you need?"
"I don't want anything, thank you. I've stopped drinking a while ago."
When she had made him uncomfortable enough with her baleful scrutiny, he cleared his throat.
"What's the weakest drink you have?"
The moment a heavy sigh left her lips, he almost felt apologetic. Almost. Not quite. Her patronizing attitude ruined what could have been, so he merely remained silent as she set a shot glass in front of him.
"That's not what you need, that's what you want. What do you need, Lelouch?"
"…Do you know what I need…? If I need anything at all, that is." He didn't know what it was, but there was something about this woman that made him doubt concrete facts that were…Well, concrete. Like the difference between what he needed and what he wanted. And whether or not he had told this woman his name.
She ignored his question and poured him a shot from an unmarked bottle before pushing the glass toward him. Hesitant to drink something unknown, he swallowed and stared until she drawled, "If I had wanted to kill you, I would have done it a long time ago."
With a grimace, he downed the shot, expecting for the liquor to burn his throat… Only to taste vanilla. No. Not vanilla. Lemon? But no, now it tasted like chocolate, and then ripe blackberries, just like the ones he had used to pick when he had been a little boy in the mountains with his grandmother, and then the peach chap-stick from his first kiss all of those years ago, and then… And then the salt of his tears at his mother's funeral. Bewildered, he stood, rooted to the spot and his back straight as a pin, as the drink toyed with his mind and caused a flood of the most random collection of memories. But as strange as it was, it wasn't quite as strange as how it made him feel.
He felt hot and cold all at once. At one point, he thought he was going to vomit, but the moment passed quickly, and he was simply giddy with excitement for no good reason, which in itself was an incredible feat as Lelouch was as stoic a person as they came. He felt like a kaleidoscope of emotions and then a broken carousel that was spinning around so fast, all of the lights were blurring together, except instead of the lights, his emotions were the ones violently jumbled up.
When everything came to a stop, and the carousel finally let him off, he faintly heard the woman say something about coming back tomorrow with what she hoped was a better answer than the half-assed one he had given her today. He nodded, too dazed and confused to make any other reply, before stumbling out of the door and into the street. Though it had felt as if he had been in there for hours on end, when he stepped outside, he found the world exactly the same as he had left it – tinted in the last of the sun's dying rays.
He stood on the side of the street, desperately trying to gather himself enough for the walk back to the hotel, when he remembered the reason why he had even come to such a strange shop in the first place – the cat. He wondered why it had not made an appearance and promptly realized that, with its wandering nature, the animal simply could have led him somewhere completely random and that he had stupidly followed on the foolish assumption that it had understood him.
Turning, he debated the wisdom of going back inside to ask whether or not she was the owner of the questionable feline, when he saw something that badly startled him. For when he had turned around, he found not just the white cat, but a companion - a slightly larger, coal black male with hatred in its piercing violet gaze, arrogance in its demeanor, and very, very sharp claws that seemed to say: "You are not welcome here."
Lelouch was more shrewd than most, but he was so preoccupied with the black cat's scowl and claws that he missed the young woman inside the bar, whose hat had changed shape even though she hadn't lay a finger on its black silk and who was now writing a note in a beaten journal to not give him so much potion the next time. Nor did he notice the wooden sign of Le Chat du Cheshire swinging in the wind, in spite of not even a breath passing through the unnaturally quiet and empty street.