Everything I Touch, I Clean

Chapter 10

King Nothing

Siesta recalled Tarbes and held back the homesickness that built at the thought. Then she 'perished' it, as her mother was 'wont' to say. That was a lie, of course, but she had to have a plan, in case she accidentally muttered a moderately intelligent word around her new employer, whom was said to be quite the strict man, according to hearsay.

She'd realized her danger when she'd used her 'smart-vocab,' as she liked to think of it, flagrantly in front of that Air-headed Noble girl. She'd made no comment, though—Air-heads were widely considered some of the more lenient, among Nobility, however, and she figured it was best not to tempt God's sense of fate.

Her 'interview' had gone, incredibly, too well, and she was handed a contract the moment it was over. She could certainly read it, but couldn't take the time to do so right in front of her employer. Nobody wanted a servant that could understand the contents of the letters they delivered, or any private correspondences come across in cleaning, and reading her contract could have very well broken her chances of getting hired. She needed the money. Or, her family did, anyways. So, instead she asked how she was to ever sign it if she didn't know her letters. Politely, Count Mott printed "Siesta" onto the paper and told her to scribble something with the pen to be her legal, enduring, binding signature, which she did. She signed her name backwards, with all the letters in a pile, Ƨiɘƨtɒ, and she led with her left hand, gripping the pen as if it were a broom—to give her that charming 'idiot Commoner' that Nobles just ate up.

She was promptly issued out of the room and told a coach would arrive for her within a fortnight. She figured that that was more than enough time to start acting like an utter dunce. That meant . . . it suddenly struck her that she wouldn't be able to bring any books with her. Well, that was no fun, not at all.

"Blah, no fair," she muttered half-heartedly. Her dust rag hung to the ground as she contemplated her word, but she could be a diligent maid sometimes, so she went about wiping an old vase to busy herself.

She could multitask, anyways; so, she wiped and dusted the vase vigorously until it shined with the brilliance of a thousand diligent maids, and she complained quietly to herself all the while. "—this had better be worth it."

With those words, Siesta inspected the vase one more time, to be thorough. It was a fine piece of silver work, and it was etched with scenes from the Founder's legend. One half of it was dedicated to the generosities of the heavens, and the other, its wraths. The interior was, through magical means, stained a coppery red, to symbolize the Founder's sacrifice, as a martyr. The bottom held a faint outline, reminiscent of the outline that some fowl, maybe a gull, made on the horizon—the remnants of what had probably once been some jewel inlay, picked clean by some thief. Still, eerily, she could almost swear that, deep within that outline lay its jeweled reflection, as if . . .

"So, Miss Siesta, what had better be worth what?"

She almost dropped the vase, at the sudden question, and she realized that she'd had the vase pointed at the face of the one behind her.

"H-how long were you standing there?" she asked as she set the vase back down and turned about. The stranger was one of Miss Vallière's peculiar new familiars, the one that could cook.

He gave her a mysterious smirk and held it just a few seconds more than a natural smile should last. He didn't answer her, though.

"Well . . . Mister . . . uhh?"

"You've forgotten me so soon, dear Siesta? And I'd thought we'd done so well—I certainly remember you so, so well," he said, leaning in to her with every word. "I am L.L., dear friend."

"Oh, yes, of course, that was it. How could I ever forget? It just slipped my mind, is all. Hehe, silly me."

He kept smiling at her.

"I'm so sorry! Please forgive me! It was an honest mistake! I won't do it again, so please stop! I'll do anything!"

L.L.'s smile widened, splitting his face into something less intimidating, sweeter, even. "Now that's the spirit, Siesta, dear. Just the kind of attitude I was looking for, actually. So, tell me: what had better be worth what?"

She couldn't avoid flinching at the half-forgotten question. She couldn't think of a reason why she shouldn't tell him—at least, not quickly enough—nor any conceivable lie. It wasn't really a secret, though. Her change of employment wouldn't be remarkable to anybody important, or important to anybody remarkable. Still, she'd planned to at least send a letter home first . . . which an illiterate 'utter dunce' should never get caught doing.

"If you're so interested in the gossips of my private life, Mister L.L., then I don't suppose I mind telling a new acquaintance first, any less than I mind telling anyone else here," Siesta said, shaking her dust rag and sighing. She figured she pulled off the attitude quite well.

"Well, now, now, Miss Siesta, such airs don't suit you; you really shouldn't try up be something you're not—you haven't got the knack for it," L.L. said, his awkward grin returned, to her discomfort. "And there's no such thing as private gossip, as I recall."

"Well, uh, yes . . . I . . ." This man scared her. ". . . I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, and I really must be going now. Good day!" And good riddance, Siesta reflected as she turned to walk away. She didn't look back, for fear of his smile, and when she rounded the next corner, flinging shame to the wind, she began to run as quickly as her skirts allowed her. She needed to think out something to do with the books she had hidden away anyways, she told herself. Procrastination was a Sin, for Commoners, after all.

The heavens turned, and the day passed by unremarkably. Siesta found herself analyzing the short dialogue she'd held with L.L., trying to make out the odds and ends of his crypto-babble. He was such a creeper, but she hoped that he was just socially awkward, and not something terrible, like, say, a rapist or a murderer, or maybe even a Noble. Now that, she thought, was a scary thing to imagine, and not all that difficult, to boot.

She felt as if he knew something, like he could just toy with her however he pleased, and it would brook no penalties. But the strange mannerisms could just as well mean he was one of those types, and that he'd somehow lived through being left to the elements as a child. Or, really, there were far too many possible explanations and interpretations, and they could all be defended, and of course there were so many other related things to think on, and—

Siesta stopped herself again and tried to shake away the tangential thinking that had consumed her mind and a majority of its hours. She packed the last book—a magical diary she'd stolen—and replaced the boards under her bed, before standing back up and dusting her hands off. She was still working for the Academy until the Count that had bought her contract sent for her, so she had to go help with the lunchtime rush.

She remembered to grab the recipe she'd written down the other day before dashing off towards the kitchens, which had been built far away from the servants' quarters, for some ridiculous reason or another. Sometimes, Nobles just lost all ability to think cerebrally when it came to reinforcing Class distinctions, the idiots. But, Siesta figured, that just meant cold soup and dusty halls to them, so ha!

But that also meant that work was father away from her room than it really had to be. She hoped that would change with her new employment, but she doubted that was the case. For example, "Uhhh, I hate my job," Siesta complained, "I wish I could have one of those cushy teaching jobs. I'm sure they get all sorts of benefits and paid vacations and everything, or . . ." Siesta's prolonged assault on the teaching staff continued quietly as she followed the instinctual route to work. " . . . and I bet they don't have to show up early like I do, and almost be late because they have to be polite to social superiors passing by, or anything!" Siesta shouted as she arrived and slammed a noticeably crinkled recipe on the counter. "I'm here! Marteau, you fat oaf, you better give me something busy to do, or I'm going to seriously strangle someone! I promise!"

Her boss laughed, his jolly jelly belly rolls jiggling and wriggling to his giggling. "And it's good to see you too, Siesta! I hope your new boss can take you, or he might just end up giving you back!"

"H-how did you know—" Siesta started, only to be interrupted.

"There's no time for idle chatter in a kitchen, girl. Talk whilst you're working! Now come, cut these leeks for me, there was a request from some rat-faced gentleman—on pizza, no less! You remembered the recipe didn't you?"

Siesta nodded yes and pointed her thumb back to the ball of paper sitting next to one if the stoves before grabbing a knife and angrily attacking some raw vegetables.

"Well, Siesta, dear, you really went at it with the paper! You really should be more careful with this! I haven't made copies for the other cooks yet, you know, and I would hate to have to ask our new friend Mister L.L. to show us again." The way he said it, it was obvious to her such a plan included Siesta talking to the man again.

"He's a creep!" she shouted a she chopped a head of lettuce.

"Siesta! I hope you're not talking about good Mister L.L. that way! You know this attitude better improve if you think you're going to . . . work, for a Count, even," Marteau said, before he started calling out for ingredients.

"How do you know that?" Siesta whispered angrily as she brought him a bowl of leeks. "And quit shouting it halfway across the kitchen, or someone might hear."

"Girl, did you think that you had a secret? Gossip travels faster than a Royal messenger, girl. Now, here, take this." Marteau handed her a cheese wheel. "Do this," Marteau pointed to a word he didn't know, "and this," another, "to it."

The words were grade and crumble, so Siesta fished through the kitchenware until she found a grader. She would have to change the wording to something simpler later, for the other cooks.

"That's what he said!" she said, marching back with a bowl of furiously graded cheese. "And you do this," Siesta crumbled the cheese onto a prepared crust, to which Marteau nodded, comically pretending he'd known.

"Yes, yes, of course. I was just testing your, uhh, reading comprehending-ness-itude-ability. And you spoke to him? And he said that? I guess great minds think alike! But, seeing him, is that why you were running through the halls yesterday? You know," Marteau started nudging her, "Denys said he could almost see your underthings, you had your dress hiked up so high."

Siesta sniffed the air and stalked back to where she'd been chopping vegetables. She wasn't worried about Denys; she was certain he was only interested in other men. In fact, gossip said that he'd had a fling with one of the students—some playboy—but he refused to open up about it, or speak to anyone that brought it up. Siesta reflected on that. She guessed that maybe gossip was more powerful than she'd ever previously considered.

"Whatever," she mumbled disconsolately, "he's still a creep." Siesta went back to her chopping, taking refuge in the comfortable, routine monotony of the exercise.

Chop, chop, chop.

Scrape, scoop, deliver, dump.

Him, haw, ho; this is the way life will go.

"Hello, my friends! I've come to visit!" her peace was interrupted by L.L.'s arriving call, his voice crescendoing as he approached, and falling off when he reached the open door. He entered from the direction of the servant's dorms, just as she had. Siesta found that creepy, like she did all other interactions she had with the man. There was a definite pattern there.

She'd only wanted a normal day! Had that been too much to ask for? 'For all that is good and just in Heaven, please send him away!' she prayed.

Alas, her prayers were not answered. Pity.

The rest of the staff didn't think so, though. "Hello, L.L.!" Marteau returned, and the cheer was soon taken up by the rest of the kitchen staff. Marteau, quick as a whip, ordered them all back to work, though, to their disappointment. 'Serves them right for being so kind to the creep,' Siesta thought, smugly grinning.

"But, my friend, it is good to see that you are alive!" Marteau laughed heartily.

"Yes, I find being alive to be most agreeable with my health. And it's certainly not something that frequently goes out of style. Though, sometimes, fashion can be finicky! But enough about fashion, my friend! I've come on a mission!"

Marteau's blank grin confirmed what Siesta had expected: the poor chef had lost track of what L.L. was saying.

"Bah, I'm not interested in hearing about the Dead at work, L.L. You have strange tastes." The poor chef had the wrong mission. "But I'm glad you are well. Rumor had it that you were hurt quite badly yesterday! I'd feared the worst!" There was genuine emotion in her boss' voice. But it was obvious to Siesta that the L.L. standing in their kitchen was fine. The Poor Chef.

"Oh, you know how it goes." L.L. shrugged. That shrug was the most insignificant gesture Siesta had ever witnessed; it told her nothing. Yet The Poor Chef nodded in agreement. "I've just come to make sure you keep sending the pizza up to my Master, though. I really must hurry, but thank you for your time. I'll let you get back to work." That was a blatant dismissal, if Siesta had ever heard one.

"Yes, of course! I'll get right on it—hey," she heard The Poor Chef yell in a different direction. "Martin, get working on those pizzas for the Vallière girl. Yes, I know, she's eating a lot of them. No, I don't know why, just do it!" And then he returned. "That should do it, L.L.! Stay safe! Those rumors have me on edge, I tell you."

And that was obviously the end of the commotion, so she went back to work.

"Perhaps gossip isn't as good as you thought," Siesta half-whispered, mostly to herself, her face cracking into a sardonic smile.

"Or maybe not," L.L. whispered as he brushed by her and back out. His touch sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. What a creep. She really needed to focus back on her work.

Chop, chop, chop.

Scrape, scoop, deliver, dump.

Him, haw, ho; this is the way life will go.

'So, you've decided on the girl?' C.C. asked, almost sounding interested.

'Perhaps,' Lelouch replied. She hated that reply. That was why he loved it. One of the reasons, at least.

He immediately regretted his decision, however, when all she sent back was happiness.

Chop, chop, chop.

Scrape, scoop, deliver, dump.

Him, haw, ho; this is the way life will go.

"Sooooo, what'cha doin'?" Her peace was interrupted by C.C.'s arriving call, and her head placed in the path Siesta's knife had been traveling, her hair trailing along the counter and all about the vegetables she had been attending to; the shades of green became confusing to look at, and the salad bowl she'd been preparing spilt over with green.

None of these details became relevant, nor noticeable, until after Siesta altered her course, however. The salad could have only been more ruined if she hadn't, unless there were vampires hiding amongst the student populace. As things turned out, no one would want a bowl of hair, as—

Thunk.

—Siesta's knife instead gave the strange woman an impromptu restyling.

"You know, you should be more careful, Miss Maid," C.C. remarked, righting herself, "Not every girl can rock short hair like you, you know?" She sounded much less upset than she should have, given what she was saying. Her locks were cut on a diagonal, and where before they had reached to her backside, now they barely covered her right shoulder. The left side barely hid her ear. And yet, her face expressed nothing beyond a flat smile.

And then, finally, Siesta screamed.

C.C. picked a piece of freshly cut cabbage out of her freshly cut bangs, examined it as if she were contemplating eating it, but flicked it away instead after a few seconds. The wet leaf landed on Siesta's cheek, under her bulging, incredulous eyes and stuck there. Siesta dropped her knife, which clattered on the kitchen's stone floor. It went unheard, however; not for the ambiance of a noisy kitchen—the kitchen, for this second, halted to a standstill as others turned to look—but instead because only at this moment did Siesta cease screaming, and promptly faint.

She'd only wanted a normal day!

'The Maid doesn't seem like much of a Queen to me, Lelouch,' C.C. remarked. She didn't mean anything by it, of course. None of Lelouch's pieces ever resembled their supposed roles, unless they actually did. But it was all the same to her; Lelouch's strategies and gambits never lasted longer than either of them tolerated that they should, and the probability that his scheming would have any effect on the outcome of any given game fit a normal curve perfectly anyways—and they had the data to back that theory up. No matter how good at chess he was, neither of them had any more or less luck than the other. But nihilism wasn't the game they had decided to play at the moment, nor today's revolution, so she pretended that she had ideals and ambitions.

'You'll never win at this rate, you know!' she teased him. At least that wasn't a pretension. Probably.

'This would hardly be the first time you were wrong, now wouldn't it?' Lelouch shrugged off her bait this time, becoming distracted by his arm. It was quite rude, really, but she decided to mimic him, for the looks those they passed gave as they walked by, shoulder to shoulder, dressed as an Academy student and a frumpy Academy maid, and looking every part like the equals sharing a moment they were. By their reactions, no one they passed saw anything more than foreigners completely ignoring God's opinions about cross-Class relations. Or maybe they saw eye candy. The optimistic explanation was to not understand, or maybe not even notice, though that was more of a happy-go-lucky personality trait.

"Gee, L.L., I could almost swear someone is watching us," she whispered loudly enough for those paying attention to hear, with a slight waver in her voice and a tremble to her lips. Bringing her knees together and doing a turnabout that wouldn't have lasted long enough for anyone doing it to actually notice more than a blur was an integral part of the act. 'Just watch them squirm.'

Lelouch sighed aloud as those that had been watching too suddenly became interested in their arms. He grabbed her around her waist and shook his head. "C.C., when has there ever been anything remotely dangerous that's been avoided by being skittish?" His reply dripped with all the contempt a Noble should be showing a Commoner, and his hand looked more than a bit dominating.

As they rounded the next corner, a collective sigh was released by those they had been passing, and someone even remarked, "Oh, so he's doing her! Now it all makes sense."

'How do you never grow tired of sketches like that?' he sent with mild agitation, which he channeled into scratching his arm more.

'How do you never tire of chess?' she shot back, 'Excepting the noodle incident, of course.'

"Witch. I thought we agreed that the noodle incident was always an exception, otherwise we wouldn't label it as such.' His spike of confusion made him verbal for a second, but by the time he was halfway through, he'd already slipped back to their usual means of communication.

'Nothing is unmentionable to an optimist!'

'Yes, yes, Optimist Prime. I know, I know,' Lelouch replied, his enthusiasm honestly lacking. And he'd always liked that pun, too. But she supposed that that had been the tenth time they'd ever done a scene like that, so his lack of enthusiasm was understandable. But an optimist would never let enthusiasm die!

'My enthusiasm is deader than dead. Feel free to be yourself at anytime.' Lelouch started recalling the number of times one of them had performed the same meta-counter argument on the behalf of optimism, and he made sure to recall those occasions quite loudly, to her chagrin. 'We won't avoid integration like this.'

'I am aware of that fact,' C.C. hummed. She went with the mood and started humming aloud as well. 'But we could at least pretend to pretend to have fun, I figured, unless you've come up with a plan, suddenly?'

It wasn't like they would force their Codes on some poor fools—that had been their only moral really. And they did have friends in the Collective, if only it were safe to return to. But plans were something they didn't have, not for this one, specific situation. Well, they actually didn't have plans for a lot of situations, but this was the first that they really should have thought about.

Obviously the dead didn't face this problem, as they couldn't. Not without having changing personalities and access to the records of all the rest of the dead, at least, which they did not.

'We know far too many that never had this problem for it to have been intelligent for us to not have thought to bring it up,' Lelouch berated the both of them collectively.

'Ha, collectively, now that's a new pun. And it works in so many languages, too,' one of them commented, maybe both. They both tittered inside for a moment about it before moving along.

They reached Louise's room and laid on their couches by their Master's side and waited for the pizza delivery servant to arrive.

"Hey, do you think that the pizza delivery boy will get luck—" Lelouch interrupted C.C. by tossing a pillow at her. It had been supporting Louise's head, but she was too asleep to have any say in the matter.

'Go answer the door, it's here,' he told her. That was always a good thing, to him. Whenever C.C. was around, he never had to answer the door if pizza was being delivered, such was her devotion. Instead, he lauded his empty victories. Telling someone to do something they were already going to do wasn't much fun when it didn't get under their skin, and no matter the amount of pizza C.C. got on her skin, it could never get under it. He knew this as a fundamental law of the physics of all universes, even those terrible enough not to have pizza, and not for lack of effort. And . . . whilst he'd been thinking, C.C. had been trying to seduce an obviously homosexual boy, and failing spectacularly.

"Boy, ma'am, this sure is a lot of food, if you don't mind me saying, ma'am," Denys commented as L.L.'s female friend opened the door for him and the four carts of pizza he'd struggled to wheel out to their Master's room. He couldn't imagine the petite Louise Vallière eating all of it, so he expected it would all go to waste.

"I actually think I could drop my workout regimen, if this becomes a daily trip," he went on conversationally. Miss Vallière was hardly the only Noble to order room service, and the deliveries fell to him. "Too bad they don't pay me extra for this," he said, grinning abashedly.

He tried to wheel the carts in, but the woman, who had, until the moment before, stood there casually eyeing him and his delivery carts, now focused on him. "You know," she started—he had a feeling that she used that phrase a lot, "my Master feel asleep whilst waiting for your delivery, but I'm sure she would agree wholeheartedly with you! But . . . I haven't got any money, and, like I said, Louise is asleep, but I'd really like to pay you!" Either Denys was losing his wits, or the woman was simpering to him.

"No, no, it's fine, ma'am, honestly!" He waved away any doubts as best as he knew how—with his hands.

"I'm sure, though, that, you know, I could pay you some way else," she said aggressively, inching her way towards him. "And, maybe you could help me eat." She licked her lips, making them shine, and growing closer still.

"Ma'am."

She kept moving towards him, out of the door frame.

"Ma'am."

He tried to inch away, only to back into a cart.

"Ma'am!"

She continued her advance, and stretched her hand out low.

"C.C.!" L.L. exclaimed from within, drawing away her attention, and it was at this moment that Denys took the chance to run away screaming like a nearly-molested gay pizza boy.

"E-enjoy your pizza!"

C.C. pushed the delivery carts into the room after she finished chasing of the boy. If she'd had a hat on, she would have straightened it at this moment, to look smug. Instead she contended herself to roll in the carts, for they had lunch, and that was all that an optimist needed to keep going. Optimism didn't have much replay value though.

"Soup's up!" There was enough for the both of them; a few slices for Lelouch, and four carts for her. He got greedy by the end, though and ended up finishing an entire cart before just as she finished her third, and by then it was too late to order more, so they sat and traded complaints with each other.

'Spiteful loser,' she called him. 'You shouldn't be eating all of our Master's pizza, that's just wrong. What's she going to have now?—crumbs?"

'You ate all the crumbs, and you know full and well that she could get whatever she wants, and you know all of this, why am I repeating myself?'

'Huh, you haven't said them here before.'

'Cue audible sigh number six, then, right?"

'That is what the script usually calls for, I suppose. it could be a bit more situational. I'd always felt that this scene was pretty open to reinterpretation.'

'So is the stunt you just pulled at the door, but I don't see you smiling.'

'Yes, well, seducing pizza delivery boys doesn't always work like it's supposed to.'

'Perhaps that's because you only try to seduce them if their interests lay beyond women.'

'That's the fun of it, though. In theory.'

'Theories have never been your strong suit.'

One of them mentioned the fact that this wouldn't help them avoid integration, and the other cued audible sigh number six.

'There's nothing to do here, I swear.'

'Yes. I'll hurry up and make her Queen.'

Siesta woke in her room, her face buried in her stiff mattress and a thin woolen sheet covering her. She wasn't in her uniform, so someone had undressed her. She suddenly wished that she could actually afford underthings; Denys would have gotten quite the show if she'd run any faster. But she wished for them, not for that, but because someone had undressed her.

She got out of bed and found her uniform had been thrown in a ball in the corner. It was covered in stands of green hair. A look about showed her that they were everywhere, and she was covered in them. She really wished she had a mirror. She was lucky she had so much as her own room, with a bed and a sheet, even. Few places treated their servants so well as the Academy. Count Mott paid thrice the wages, though. That had been the first line of her contract. She hoped the next sentence hadn't said she had to give it all back immediately, but the head of staff had said it was a good idea to sign it, so she didn't think that was the case. Never mind that the head of staff had soon after created an enormous golem and tried to break into the Academy's vault. Those were very pressing thoughts indeed, but she instead fixated on the green hair spread everywhere.

C.C. had dragged her to her room, apparently. The trail of hair leading to her room attested to that assumption. If C.C. had alternatively only been accompanying another member of the staff, the hair would have been swept up already. Which meant she had to do it. She grabbed the broom from under her bed and went to work. C.C., the friend that L.L. spoke so highly of whilst he was cooking, seemed more like a thoughtless slob to Siesta. But, then, considering her opinion of L.L., she shouldn't have expected anything else.

Halfway to the kitchen the hair trail ended in a pile with a broom standing upright in it. Siesta followed the broom shaft with her eyes, and eventually came to meet another pair of eyes.

"I'm always having to clean up after her," L.L. said, as a sort of greeting. It was more of a casual remark, really. He didn't seem surprised to meet her where he did, and she certainly hadn't heard any sweeping but her own up to this point.

Siesta managed to avoid flinching, if barely, when she realized who she had bumped into. His smile seemed more abashed, really. That was probably why she didn't run immediately. Instead, she watched him sweep the pile at their feet into a dustpan and dump it into a bag tied about his waist. When he was done, he loosed a yawn before facing her.

"Your uniform is full of wrinkles and hair, you are aware?" L.L. said, raising his brow, a if to say that it offended his sense of fashion that she left her room I'm such a state.

"I tried my best to shake it out," she replied, feeling compelled to defend herself.

"Right," L.L. did not sound convinced. "But you'll be leaving tomorrow anyways, so it hardly matters, does it?"

Siesta shook her head and internally wondered what kind of gossip gave the man that impression. "I don't expect to be gone so soon. Within a fortnight rarely means within a fortnight."

L.L. smiled. Siesta expected that he would tell her why she was wrong, or that he would give her another of those unsettling grins, but this one was just empty, as if he were in a hurry.

And she didn't expect that he would poke her in the forehead, or really anything that came after that.

Her broom clattered to the floor, and again no one heard her drop something.

It felt like she was just waking up again, but she distinctly recalled that all she had done was blink. The setting had changed, however, and she a was no longer in a hallway with L.L. She accepted that. For some reason, she felt no urge to question it—it just seemed to make absolute perfect sense.

So now, Siesta was left standing alone in a corridor without L.L. anywhere in sight. She knew he was somewhere to be found, however, and that that was the only logical thing to do. She started walking towards the door at the end of the corridor, but then thought about what she was doing and looked behind.

She had been about to step into the hallway, but she hadn't actually been in it. She'd been standing on the precipice of nothing, and behind her there was nothing. But it made sense that she should instead go through the void. L'appel du vide, the feeling that, if she could just lean forwards, ever so slightly, she could just fall, fall, fall. It could be so easy. She leaned back with her arms stretched out wide, shifting her weight on the balls of her heels, and fell. She fell for what seemed like forever, with a horizon above her where nothing met the hallway's ceiling, and one below her where she met nothing. She embraced the fall, and wondered if she would be consumed by so little, or if she could reach a bottom and work her way back up, if the landing didn't kill her.

When her fall stopped, she splashed into the ground with the force of a butterfly, as if her momentum meant nothing to the eternal dark nothing she stood on. She floated, as if she rested on an ocean in this abyss, but it did not feel cool, hot, wet, or dry. She knew that, had she been clothed, her clothes would have become soaked and dragged her down into the depths, however. She realized her uniform had melted away as she plunged, and it made sense to her. All stations meant nothing to nothing. In this moment, she was but a human. She had never felt so alone. She had never felt so alive. The void did not discriminate.

Siesta stood up, and the sea allowed her to stand on it, and she could feel its waves flowing beneath her toes, supporting them whilst trying to consume them, like standing still at the edge of the water and the beach, and letting the tide lap at her ankles. As much as this unnerved her, she knew that she would not sink. She looked up, trying to see where she had come from. If she squinted, she could see a spec of something indistinct floating far above her, supported by nothing.

As she stared, there came a trickling noise to her side. She turned in time to see another sedately rise out of the sea. He wore a fabric woven from nothing, sewn into a tight, form fitting second skin that left only his eyes visible. Only his barest outline was visible, and even his hair, darker than midnight, blended into the void. Surprised by this, Siesta looked down at herself and realized that she wore much the same. Her hair must do much the same as well. Through the dark, an azure gaze locked tightly to a violet.

"King Nothing," Siesta said, cool and even, acknowledging the newcomer with the barest of nods.

"This is no place for one without a contract, QX. Come," King Nothing said, "A Demon's nihilism is unhealthy for a seventeen year old girl."

Siesta went to object, but by then it was already too late. She blinked, and they were back in the hall.

"Look at you, you're all stained up! I simply can't allow that!" King Nothing's suit evaporated into a third year Academy student's uniform as he fretted over her own. "You must think of something, anything. You must desire the future, or the past, or even the present, but you must desire something." he said meticulously. "And quickly, before I have to make you."

Siesta tried very hard to think of why she had ever wanted anything. The thoughts came slowly, thickly, but they came. She had a family, and she had her books, and she had a desire to live, just like anyone else.

"No, that isn't enough," he said, plucking at what she was wearing. "You must have a desire, all of your own. What I saw in you earlier, QX, was more powerful than love. You drew the Demon, and not the Witch for a reason, girl."

"No, I—that can't be right." Siesta shook her head, and she felt the call of the void begin to rise within her again. But he couldn't be telling the truth; she was just a maid.

A blazing crimson glow lit L.L.'s forehead as he grasped her own. "You must accept this desire, or you will not live much longer, QX." And then he squeezed her temple between his thumb and middle finger, just enough to cause her pain. She tried to squirm away, but she could not. He was not particularly strong for a man, but as she moved to stop him, he tightened his grip, and his fingers began to dig into her skull. She felt a stab of lightning jolt into her brain, and could not fight him, or move, even.

"Fight me," he told her. "Fight me if you want to live, but you must want it. The only other option it's to lose your humanity and die."

She tried to shake out of his grip, to struggle just a bit, but that only caused him to further tighten his grip. The next rush of pain that landed through her core seemed to shake the very foundations of the hall they stood in, and it seemed to grow dimmer, more like nothing, before she shut her eyes and howled at the pain.

"You must fight me! You must live your desire, what drives you so apart from your peers, or you will be consumed by nothing!"

She couldn't understand what he was talking about, and she could barely make herself care. She couldn't stop him, she could barely move at all. It wasn't fair, this kind of crazy stuff wasn't supposed to happen to her, and yet she couldn't get away from it. She'd only wanted a normal day!

The void inched upon her, lapping at her ankles, slowly rising. She could feel the hall fading, becoming insubstantial, even if she could not bear to open her eyes and see.

L.L. pressed harder, eliciting yet another primal howl from deep within Siesta.

"My dear, you have never wanted a normal day," he replied, as if reading her thoughts. It was crazy, he was crazy. But as much as she despised him, and as little as she could actually do in this moment, it made her think, and it made her angry.

Why? She could not fathom a reason why life was so unfair, why she never had a choice in any matter, and she was just so weak. Why, Siesta thought, was life so unfair. Even beyond this moment, before and after, she had never amounted to anything more than a Commoner, would never. Her entire life had been decided the day her Commoner parents decided to sleep together again and have another child.

"Why must God be so distant when I am in need!?"

He voice echoed in the hall, and L.L. released her. Massaging her temples, she looked about and witnessed the corridor regain its colour and the sea of nothing recede, leaving the skin below her ankles dyed a light grey tint. Her suit of nothing was gone, and her tan skin shined softly in the directionless, sourceless light of this place. But her feet had been tainted and tinted by the sea, and they seemed to dull the light. The floor of the corridor had suffered the same effects, and where before it's wooden panels had seemed fresh and waxed, now they were shriveled and grey from age and exposure.

At last, Siesta breathed deeply a shuddered breath, wriggling her off-coloured toes and feeling the strength return to her limbs.

L.L. bent down to her, and gazed at her with softened eyes before gently wiping away tears she hadn't realized she'd cried. He stepped away, perhaps feeling her persisting anger. As she stood back up straight and prepared to yell at him and God and life itself, her uniform reappeared. There was no equality outside of nothing, and she was nothing but an angry maid in this corridor so much like those of the Academy.

"I found you, L.L., now tell me why I am here, and where here is."

"You are here, outside of space and time, here where there is nothing but what you can desire. You could call it the thin existence that is not, the buffer zone between reality," L.L. pointed to the simple wooden door at the end of the hall, "and complete non-existence; death," he gestured beyond the hall. "From this platform, all directions are down, you could say. In humans, this is called the mind, but a buffer such as this exists within all things; this one is mine."

"So this is all you desire?" Siesta turned about. "This is all that lives in your heart and mind? But there's nothing here!"

"Precisely because I've really been feeling a bit nihilistic lately, my dear," L.L. chuckled mirthlessly. "But I'm not always so morose, my dear, even if it is all just for show," he announced. And when he snapped his fingers, the world outside the corridor exploded with a blinding light. When she could see again, there was now a sea of windows with curtains drawn over them floating upright, and the nothing was replaced by a great white everything, like a mist, and the eternity was filled with light.

L.L. stepped into this mist, and began sauntering towards something specific in this sea of windows. "Now come along, you'll get lost on your own," he called out before being hidden by the windows he walked amongst.

Siesta stood once more upon the edge of the hallway, this time looking out and feeling ever so much like some sort wanderer above a sea of fog. Very small indeed. Everything was quite a lot harder to handle than nothing.

Mustering up her courage, Siesta closed her eyes and stepped out into the mist.

Following him was Siesta. She stepped nervously about, looking worried she might fall into something, whatever something happened to be. Still, she followed him, which was a good start to any contact.

Lelouch found what he'd been looking for and turned to Siesta with a smile. "A memory," he told her as he pulled open the curtain in front of them, to reveal one of the windows she'd been so keen to notice.

The memory began to play, and Lelouch sat back and watched as Siesta became enraptured with the window. She looked at him after some few minutes.

"That was our last conversation through your perspective, wasn't it?" she asked. He nodded yes. "But what's it doing now, I don't recognize this view." She turned back to the window after hearing it repeat what she'd just said.

"It's my latest memory, what's happening right now," he answered her. The window repeated him with a second of delay. Siesta seemed to understand, so he stepped back up to the window and shut the curtain.

"So these are your memories? But there are so many of them!" She sounded pretty cute and childlike, and that made him giggle and titter inside.

He didn't feel much like explaining his memories, however, so he just snorted derisively and said, "Have a look around, why don't you?"

Like a child, Siesta immediately ran off and started pulling curtains.

Giddily, Siesta ran about and began looking into the windows that surrounded her. Some of the curtains wouldn't open, so she assumed that those were private memories, which was fine with her, but most of them opened up easily, to reveal a short memory of something L.L. had lived. Most of them were actually relatively dull, but that made sense—not everything could be interesting. Still, she was overwhelmed by choices. There were memories of animals she didn't recognize, and in languages she'd never heard, in places she couldn't have imagined, with people that didn't all look like people and magic that did things she'd never seen magic do before. She couldn't piece together which memories had occurred in what order, but it didn't matter to her. The only real constant she could see was that C.C. was always somewhere nearby, and even that wasn't always true. They hardly seemed like the same people any any two memories, though. In some they seemed kind, and in others hateful, and there seemed to be no method to any of it.

The first memory had been something she could deal with—it was a scene she'd already lived, and then it had been as if she were seeing life through someone else's eyes for the first time, but none of the others challenged her nearly so much, for they all seemed as fantasies and dreams to her. She couldn't imagine how any one person had had so many strange encounters, or so many friends, or enemies, or those he couldn't have cared less for. Siesta spent what felt like hours looking around, staring at all these different pictures of life and existence, but for all she had tried, she came back to L.L. feeling as though she had learned nothing of who he was, and less of what he was. But he was certainly more than some creep, this King Nothing she had met. She had no clue what to call it—him.

Perhaps, he was some sort of an enigma. Perhaps was a good word for him.

"Perhaps, I am lost," she told L.L. when she found him again. "I can neither return to the corridor, nor understand anything I have seen for the entirety of my time here."

L.L. turned to her with a blank stare and said, "Not all those who wander are lost." in such a was as to mean far less than it should. The line sounded familiar to her, though, as if she'd heard it somewhere before.

"I—I think I read that in a book, once. Perhaps. I'm not sure. But I hardly see what that has to do with anything when I am most certainly lost, for I am not where I want to be and I cannot think of a way to get there. As interesting as all of these memories are, I still want to know why I am here." She felt the rage return to her voice as she recollected the way this place confused and pained her. And the way L.L. seemed to smoothly dodge answering any of her questions.

L.L. sat down on a chair that was not there and looked at her though his lashes. "You're here because I brought you here."

"How did you bring me here? Into your own mind, a thing I'd thought you hadn't even had!?"

"Now that's just mean, QX." He actually sounded slightly offended. She was fine with that.

"No, I will not be distracted by your strange nicknames, tell me how you brought me here, and why, whilst you're at it."

He stood back up and, out of nowhere, poked her in the forehead. "By doing that, and because I wanted to," he said, before sitting back down on a chair that wasn't there. She decided that if she were going to put up with his antics, she might as well take a seat too. So she sat down across from him on a chair that wasn't there. L.L. raised a brow when she did that, looking almost surprised, before smiling again, slightly this time.

"Now you're getting the hang of it," he said, and then he snapped his fingers again, and they were back in the hall, sitting on strong wooden chairs with a small wooden table with a vase in the centre of it in between them. The light outside slowly faded away, and everything and nothing coalesced into a dull grey something that wasn't all that different from the tint on her feet.

Siesta took in the changes as calmly as she could, and when she came to the vase, she picked it up and recognized it as the one she'd been cleaning the other day. It still shined brightly, reflecting its surroundings, and she could see her own face in it.

"What you call God, it is not so far away as you seem to think," L.L. told her as she continued to inspect the vase. "Within all things, there is God, as you would think. God is just beyond the buffer of your mind, my dear. Beyond each buffer, in fact. Non-existence is what separates you from God." Siesta tried to flip over the vase to look at the bottom again, but found that it was full and that she had almost spilt the contents on her blouse. She looked inside and found that it was filled with water.

"Death is what separates you from the Collective Unconscious, from universal memory. This world—Halkeginia—is one without a God of its own, but if you wish to invoke the Collective, then there are ways to do that. The will of the universe helps those who help themselves and in turn help others, for it is without a will of its own. You must simply give it a will; make its will your own."

Siesta touched the surface of the water in the vase, and a ripple spread out from her touch. When the ripple reached the inside walls, their coppery colour faded away into the water, bleeding out. The inside changed back to silver, and the water seemed to absorb the colour and turn a deep red. She pulled her finger out and licked away the liquid stuck to it—wine.

"What would that make you, then, if you go about handing out powers to whomever strikes your fancy?" Siesta asked. She set the vase back on the table.

"Perhaps you could call me a talent scout, QX. I look for those who would be fun to play with, and I play with them." He shrugged. "It staves off boredom."

"I don't think I understand."

"That's perfectly fine with me. Most contractees don't, it takes some of the fun out of it. I usually just offer them the contract, without much explanation."

"That is . . . not a particularly kind way to go about things, I imagine."

"No, it's not. But one does not get called the Demon Prince, or King Nothing, or a creep for nothing. I can give you the power to do what you desire. I can give you what you want, if you so wish it. All that is required is that when the time comes, you accept the cost of change. There is little kindness in the Demon's contract."

Siesta furrowed her brow in thought. From the way he recited those lines, they were well practiced, and he would not be sharing any more secrets today. "I hardly think that Demon is the right word. You speak things that the clerics do not say, but I have never been a sycophant of the Church."

"You give me too much credit, I assure you," L.L. said, crossing his legs. He certainly seemed to think what he was saying was truth, by the way he said it.

"Perhaps I will find out, then. Eventually. But this is all far too much for me right now," she replied, standing up from her chair. "I'll have to turn down this contract at the moment. Perhaps I'll think on it for a while, but I see no reason to sign any more contracts right now. I have no idea what the last one I signed has gotten me into."

L.L. did not seem pleased with her answer, but neither did he seem displeased. Grey was certainly his colour. He stood from his chair and it vanished, leaving just her own and the table. They began to walk together down the hall, towards the door. The old floorboards creaked under her steps, reminding her that she had been brushed by L.L.'s nihilism.

"This hall is part of your own mind, brought into mine," he said casually as they walked. "All contracts are established through a similar mental connection. Now that you are aware of the contract, you could always sign it without me, so long as you desire it enough."

"Still trying?" Siesta laughed.

L.L. flashed a smile. "It's always difficult to sell contracts when you're a Demon," he said. "I have to be willing to go so far out of my way just to make people see the worth in it, sometimes. It can get a bit tiring, that's for sure."

"I can imagine," Siesta said with another laugh as they reached the end of the hall. "Perhaps you should work on your pitch," she offered him as she grasped its bronze handle and pulled open the door.

"Perhaps," L.L. said thoughtfully. She turned to smile and call him a creep, but he put his finger to her forehead again, and this time pushed her through the open door. Behind her, she saw what must have been the inside of her mind, but only for a brief moment, for when she hit the floor, she blinked, and was once more standing in the Academy's halls with L.L.'s finger to her forehead.

And then she realized she was tired. L.L. saw the look in her eyes and quickly grabbed her, muttering that she had been in 'there' for far too long. She fell away from reality and began to dream.

ODD#I(e)/5,iii;50Cfn3179

AN:

I caffeinated my laptop a while ago, so I've taken up writing on my phone, which is not as fun as it sounds. I hope that this was enjoyable, if a bit weird.

Anywho, thoughts? Suggestions? A Reviewer is You!