Morning light filtered down through the grimy skylights of the Last Drop like a reluctant promise. It wasn't the crisp golden dawn Lelouch remembered from Pendragon's terraces or Ashford Academy's grounds; this was a hazy, chem-tinted glow that turned everything in the upstairs loft a soft violet-gray. He lay on a thin mattress stuffed with old rags, one of three crammed into the corner the kids shared. His small body ached from yesterday's beating—the ribs still tender, the shoulder stiff—but the pain felt distant, almost instructional. A reminder that this new stage demanded a new performance.
He sat up slowly, black hair falling into his violet eyes, and caught himself before a sigh could escape. Ten years old, he reminded himself silently. Act it. No grand speeches. No emperor's poise. He had spent the night replaying every interaction with Powder, Vander, and the others, filing away their speech patterns the way he once filed battle plans. Short sentences. Simple words. A little wonder, a little mischief. No one here needed to know the mind behind the boy's face had once toppled an empire. He was just Lelouch now—a stray kid who got lucky.
Downstairs, the bar already hummed with life. The clatter of mugs, Vander's low chuckle, the sharp smack of Vi slapping Mylo's hand away from the breakfast tray. Lelouch padded down the creaky wooden stairs in oversized borrowed trousers rolled at the ankles and a patched shirt that hung like a tent on his frame. He kept his steps light, almost hesitant, the way a real child might after a rough first night.
Vander spotted him first. The big man stood behind the scarred wooden counter, wiping a mug with a rag that had seen better decades. His beard was neatly trimmed, eyes kind but sharp, the kind of gaze that had seen too many lost kids wander in from the Lanes. "Morning, kid. Sleep okay? That loft's not the fanciest, but it beats the alleys."
Lelouch rubbed the back of his neck, forcing a shy half-smile that felt strange on his face. "Yeah… it was warm. Thanks, mister Vander. For letting me stay." The words came out softer, higher-pitched, deliberately clipped. No flourish. Just a grateful lost kid.
Vander's laugh rumbled like distant thunder. "Mister? Nah, just Vander. And you're welcome here long as you pull your weight. We got rules—help with chores, no starting fights, and stay out of the chem vents after dark. Think you can manage that?"
Lelouch nodded quickly, eyes wide in what he hoped looked like earnest ten-year-old eagerness. "I can. I'm good at… figuring stuff out. Cleaning and stuff." Internally he winced at how clumsy the line sounded, but Vander only clapped a massive hand on his shoulder—gentle despite the size—and steered him toward the table where the others were already digging into bowls of thick porridge mixed with dried fruit scraps.
Vi looked up first, pink hair tied back in a messy ponytail, muscular arms flexing as she shoveled another spoonful. She eyed him the way a guard dog eyes a new stray—wary but not hostile. "You're the dressed up kid Powder dragged in. Name's Vi. You cause trouble, you're out. Simple."
"Vi," Vander warned mildly, but there was affection in it.
Lelouch ducked his head, cheeks flushing on command. "I won't. Promise. Powder… she saved me. I owe her." He slid onto the bench across from her, keeping his posture a little slumped, shoulders rounded like any scrawny undercity kid.
Mylo snorted from the end of the table, freckled face splitting into a grin as he flicked a bit of porridge at Claggor. "Another mouth to feed. Great. You any good at cards, new kid? Or are you just gonna sit there looking fancy?"
Claggor, bigger and quieter, just gave a small nod of greeting, his mouth full.
Lelouch forced a small laugh—awkward, boyish. "I… I don't know cards real good. But I can learn?" He kept his vocabulary tight, dropping the polished edges he'd used yesterday in the alley. It felt like wearing ill-fitting shoes, but necessary. These people had taken him in without questions. The least he could do was not scare them with a ghost's vocabulary.
Powder bounded down the stairs right then, blue braid swinging wildly, pockets already clinking with who-knew-what gadgets. Her face lit up the moment she saw him. "Lelouch! You're still here! I thought maybe you'd sneak off in the night like in Mylo's dumb stories." She skidded to a stop beside him, grabbing his sleeve with both small hands the way she had in the alley. "Come on—after breakfast I'll show you my corner. I got springs and chem mixers and everything. Ekko says my gear ratios are almost as good as his, but he's older so he cheats."
Lelouch felt something warm and unexpected uncoil in his chest. Powder's enthusiasm was pure, unfiltered, the kind of bright spark Nunnally used to have before the world dimmed her light. He had spent years indulging every whim of his crippled sister—reading to her for hours, playing silly games in the gardens, never once letting impatience show. Refusing Powder felt… impossible. And honestly? He didn't want to.
"Yeah," he said, keeping his voice light and eager. "I'd like that. Your smoke thing yesterday was really cool. How'd you make it puff so big?"
Powder's eyes went wide with delight. She plopped down right next to him, legs swinging under the bench, and launched into a rapid, half-mumbled explanation of powder ratios and vinegar triggers while Vander slid a bowl in front of her. Lelouch listened, nodding at the right moments, asking simple questions—"So the spring holds the pressure till it pops?"—and watching the way her whole body animated when she talked. The others ate in amused silence; even Vi's stern mouth twitched into something like a smile.
Breakfast blurred into morning chores. Lelouch swept the floor with careful, deliberate strokes, toning down any hint of precision that might seem too adult. He let Mylo tease him about "sweeping like a topsider princess" and responded with a shy grin and a mumbled "Shut up." When Vi demonstrated how to stack crates using a counterweighted spring pulley by the back door, he watched with wide-eyed fascination, asking just enough to seem impressed without sounding like he was analyzing torque ratios in his head.
By midday the bar quieted. Vander stepped out for supplies, leaving the kids to their own devices. Powder wasted no time.
"Come on!" she tugged his arm again, braid whipping as she dragged him up to the loft. "My corner's over here—see?" A small alcove by the window held a chaotic masterpiece: coils of wire, half-wound springs, glass vials of colored chem fluid, and several lumpy spheres that looked suspiciously like her smoke bombs. "Ekko helped me with the winding jig last week, but he's busy with his hoverboard stuff today. You get it, right? The way the spring stores the twist and then lets go?"
Lelouch knelt beside her, keeping his posture loose and childlike. Inside, the old strategist catalogued every piece with perfect recall—torsion constants, friction coefficients—but he let none of it show. "Whoa… yeah. Like when you wind up a toy and it zooms across the floor. But yours are way bigger. And the smoke part—that's the chem, huh?"
Powder beamed so hard her cheeks dimpled. "Exactly! Most kids just stare and go 'that's weird, Powder.' But you get it!" She nudged a finished smoke sphere toward him. "Wanna test one outside? Not too big—one that just makes pretty colors?"
He couldn't say no. Not when her eyes shone like that. "Okay. But… only if you show me how first."
They spent the next hour on the rickety rooftop platform behind the bar, Powder demonstrating how to prime the release pin while Lelouch pretended to fumble the spring winding twice before getting it right. The little sphere popped with a soft whump, releasing a cloud of harmless pink mist that swirled in the chem-tinted breeze. Powder clapped and laughed, spinning in circles until she was dizzy. Lelouch caught her arm gently when she wobbled—exactly the way he used to steady Nunnally after she tried to stand too fast—and found himself laughing too. A real laugh, small and boyish and surprisingly free.
That was only the beginning.
Afternoon brought the first paint-ball game.
Powder had a whole stash of them—small rubber pouches filled with thick, washable chem-paint mixed with a sticky spring-trigger mechanism. "It's like tag but you shoot!" she explained, already loading two into a makeshift slingshot device she'd built from scrap tubing and tension wire. "Ekko and me play all the time, but Vi says I cheat 'cause I hide in the pipes. You wanna be on my team?"
Lelouch hesitated for half a second—memories of real battlefields flashing behind his eyes—but the pull of her hopeful grin won instantly. "Yeah. Team Powder. Let's do it."
They recruited Mylo and Claggor for the opposing side. Vi refereed from a crate, arms crossed, pretending not to smile. The "arena" was the maze of catwalks and crates behind the Last Drop—narrow ledges, hanging laundry for cover, dripping pipes for ambush spots. Rules were simple: three hits and you're out; paint stains counted.
Powder moved like liquid. She darted between shadows, braid flying, tiny hands flicking her spring-loaded shooter with terrifying accuracy. Lelouch hung back at first, letting muscle memory from Knightmare simulators guide his aim while deliberately missing the first two shots to sell the "new kid" act. Mylo taunted from behind a barrel—"Missed again, fancy boy!"—and Lelouch answered with a deliberately childish "Hey, no fair!" before tagging him square in the chest on the third try.
But Powder… Powder was something else.
She ricocheted a shot off a pipe to splatter Claggor from behind. She slid under a low walkway on her knees and popped up firing two at once. Lelouch found himself actually having to focus—his old-life reflexes giving him only the slightest edge. One of her shots grazed his shoulder; another nearly took his ear. By the end of the first round, the score was close—Powder had three eliminations to his two—and the girl was bouncing on her toes, cheeks flushed, paint streaking her arms like war paint.
"You're good!" she panted, grabbing his hand and spinning him in a victory circle even though they'd technically tied. "Better than Mylo. Almost as good as Ekko, but he's taller so it's cheating. We gotta play again tomorrow—promise?"
Lelouch looked down at their joined hands, at the bright blue paint on her knuckles, at the pure joy radiating off her like heat from a chem engine. Refusal wasn't an option. "Promise," he said, and meant it. "That was… really fun."
Vi watched from her perch, eyebrow raised. "Not bad, new kid. You move like you've done this before. Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"
Lelouch rubbed the back of his neck again, forcing a sheepish grin. "Just… beginner's luck? Powder's way better anyway." The deflection worked; Vi snorted and ruffled his hair roughly before wandering off to help Vander with evening prep.
That night, after dinner of stew and stale bread, the kids piled into the loft for stories. Mylo spun another tall tale about topside ghosts. Claggor listened quietly, occasionally correcting details. Vi pretended to be bored but stayed. Powder curled up against Lelouch's side without asking, her small body warm and trusting, braid tickling his arm as she whispered, "Tomorrow we make better paint balls. Ones that glow a little. You'll help, right?"
"Yeah," he whispered back, voice soft. "I'll help."
Inside, the fallen emperor felt the last tight knot in his chest loosen another fraction. No Geass. No C.C. No empire. Just this—warm bodies, laughter echoing off metal walls, a little girl who saw him as a friend. He had protected Nunnally with every calculated breath; indulging Powder's games, her inventions, her endless energy felt like the easiest thing he had ever done.
The next three days blurred into a gentle rhythm that Lelouch had never known in his old life.
Mornings were chores: polishing mugs with spring-powered buffing cloths Powder had rigged, hauling water from the communal pump using counterweighted buckets, sweeping the endless grit that blew in from the Lanes. Lelouch initially kept his movements clumsy on purpose—dropping a mug once just to hear Mylo's triumphant "Ha! Told you he was fancy!"—but always made up for it with quiet helpfulness that earned approving nods from Vander.
Afternoons belonged to Powder.
She dragged him everywhere. To the rooftop to test a new spring-loaded grappling hook (it worked for three seconds before snapping with a comical twang). To the narrow alley behind the bar to race wind-up toy carts she'd built from scrap wheels and chem-fuel pistons. And always, always back to paint ball.
They played every single day.
The second game Lelouch let himself be slightly more competitive—tagging Powder once from twenty paces with a ricochet shot that even impressed Vi. Powder's eyes had gone huge. "How'd you do that?! Teach me!" So he did—demonstrating proper finger tension on the trigger spring, how to lead a moving target by half a heartbeat—while carefully phrasing everything like excited kid-talk. "See? If you pull it back just this much and let go when they're right… there!"
Powder absorbed it instantly. Her next shot nailed Mylo between the eyes from twice the distance. The girl was a prodigy—dexterity that bordered on unnatural, spatial awareness that made her shots curve around corners, steady hands that never trembled even when laughing. Lelouch, with years of simulated combat experience behind eyes that had once commanded fleets, found himself only fractionally better. It spoke volumes. This child could have been a sniper in any army; here she turned it into pure joy.
By the third day the games had evolved. Powder invented "glow paint" by mixing trace chem-luminescence into the pouches. They played at dusk when the Lanes lights flickered on, the glowing splatters turning the catwalks into a living light show. Lelouch got hit four times in one round and didn't care; he was too busy laughing as Powder danced around him in victory, paint streaking her face like tribal marks, shouting "We're the best team ever!"
Evenings were quieter. Vander would sit by the fire pit behind the bar, telling stories of the old days when the undercity was even rougher. Lelouch listened with wide eyes, asking innocent questions—"Did they really have bigger spring engines back then?"—while absorbing every detail of Vander's philosophy: strength through family, mercy when possible, never letting the topsiders break your spirit. The big man watched him sometimes with that knowing look, like he sensed Lelouch was actually from Piltover, but he never pressed. Just offered second helpings of stew and a quiet "You're doing good, kid."
Vi took him under her wing in small ways—teaching him basic self-defense moves on the mats in the back room. "Keep your guard up, short stuff. Don't let 'em see you coming." Lelouch let her correct his stance repeatedly, even though his muscle memory was perfect. He liked the way she softened when she thought no one noticed, the way she'd ruffle his hair after a good block and mutter "Not bad."
Mylo kept up the teasing, but it grew friendlier—challenging Lelouch to arm-wrestle (which Lelouch lost on purpose, groaning dramatically) and then dragging him into card games where the new kid somehow won half the rounds through "dumb luck." Claggor was quieter, but offered solid backup during paint-ball ambushes and once shared his prized collection of polished spring cogs for Powder's next project.
And through it all, Powder.
She never left his side for long. If she wasn't inventing, she was tugging him into games—tag through the pipes, hide-and-seek that always ended with her popping out of a vent covered in dust, silly contests to see who could wind a spring the fastest. Lelouch found every excuse to say yes. Because saying yes to Powder felt like saying yes to the little sister he had failed to protect in another life. Because her laughter was bright enough to drown out the silence where C.C.'s voice used to live. Because, for the first time since Zero Requiem, he wasn't calculating outcomes—he was simply… present.
One evening, after an especially chaotic paint-ball match that left the entire back alley glowing with neon splatters, the two of them sat on the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling over the drop. The chem-fog glowed soft purple below, distant elevator chains clanking like mechanical heartbeats. Powder leaned against his shoulder, sticky with paint, braid undone and spilling across both of them.
"You're the best, Lelouch," she said quietly, the manic energy of the day finally winding down. "Nobody else gets the springs like you do. Not even Ekko—he just makes them go fast. You make them… smart. And you don't laugh when I mess up."
Lelouch looked at the small hand resting on his knee, paint-stained and trusting. He thought of Nunnally's frail fingers reaching for his in the dark after nightmares. He thought of all the times he had said no to protect her—and how that protection had cost everything.
He wrapped an arm around Powder's shoulders, awkward but sincere. "I won't laugh," he promised, voice soft and boyish. "And we'll keep playing. Every day, okay?"
She nodded against him, already half-asleep. "Every day."
Below them, Vander's voice drifted up from the bar—calling the kids in for supper. Vi's laugh followed. Mylo's teasing. The familiar sounds of a family that had chosen each other.
Lelouch vi Britannia—once emperor, once Zero, once dead—sat on a rooftop in the undercity of a world he still barely understood, a ten-year-old boy with paint in his hair and a little sister's head on his shoulder. He felt no urge to conquer, no itch for power. Only the quiet, profound peace of a man who had finally found a stage where he could simply be kind.
The curtain had changed. And for once, he was content to let the play unfold exactly as the children wrote it.