Hello Readers! This is the 5th version of Gambit!

Special thanks to Sweetishfish for starting a new beta-run past this whole thing and moving up things another notch higher.

Special thanks to Kiki Hayashi for pointing out a lot of grammar errors.

Special thanks also to Toyoko for doing the same at the later chapters.

Special thanks to theFinalArbiter for beta-ing and supporting this story since the start.

Setting: This story starts right after R2 ended, and I hope to start all characters reasonable IC. There is, however, something of a character development in my story. Actually, the only one NOT willing to change is our main character. Now, what does that tell you?

This was originally conceived as a series of funny sketches, built loosely around a story that indulges in my own outlook on live.

Disclaimer: I don't own Code Geass. This is just some fun with it; please take no offense, actual owners!

Viewpoints:

0000~~O~~0000 = camera viewpoint

0000~~OC~~0000 = side character viewpoint

0000~L~0000 = Lelouch viewpoint

0000~Ch~0000 = Charles viewpoint

Etc.

Yes, your review will make me, and my beta's happy!

Special thanks and cookies for you if you stop by and say hi!

EDIT 12-1-13: (12 jan 2013)- made some small fixes to the first chapter, just to get you all started right into the action.

It's a little trick I am trying in Fire Hazard too (Avatar TLA fic) – try it, writing it makes me happy.

0000000000000000000000000000 0000000000000000000000000000 0000000000

'prologue'

0000~L~0000

He was quiet; at peace.

There was nothing but darkness. Until a familiar voice he could not place spoke up:

'And you would leave it at that?'

But still, peace; and black darkness.

Then suddenly there was also pain, and panic. He was suffocating! Ash; ash everywhere: in his mouth, in his eyes. His lunges were empty—excruciatingly so: They demanded to be filled. It was like his chest had become a separate entity; a beats apart from him. With its own wants. With its own desires. Raging, it screamed for air. Thought there was only dust instead of oxygen, denying that need was a chanceless battle.

He breathed.

0000~~O~~0000

Even in the darkest hour before the dawn, the city was not at peace.

Not this night: not in the night after liberation - a day after the Demon King died. We are in the slums of the once-again proclaimed capital city of Japan. And though nothing compares to the fevered purging of yester night, the fires on the streets and in the people's hearts are far from out, flaring up at the slightest opportunity.

Hastily assembled police units, empowered by a fragile alliance between the new Britannian and Japanese governments patrol the streets. Most are trying their best to stop any more acts of requital against those that had collaborated with the Demon King's government, expecting their due to come soon enough.

A few of those units, however, also take the law into their own hands: the new government may promise justice onto all, but for those who have lost their family to the Demon's reign, it is hard to wait. Harder still to hope and forgive.

After all, the angry whisper goes: the one at the center of this fragile alliance is none other than that Demon King's sister, Nunnally! Oh, sure, he had denounced her; imprisoned her. He was even going to execute her! Still, blood is still blood. Who is to say the sister is any better than the brother?

Out here in the ghettos, however, the sounds of violence are far and few. An occasional scream is ignored by people happy enough to sleep once again in a country they can call their own.

Houses are dark, no lights on anywhere. The occupants here are either too poor to afford electricity, or they wish to blend in: the second type has dreams filled with nightmares of retribution now, caused by soiled conscience, and the knowledge that power now lies with the people they used to oppress.

Even here, there are some houses abandoned, the previous dwellers either on the run, or dragged out into the streets and put to a brutal death.

Amongst these hovels a back-alley winds past make-shift gardens. It end into a shabby courtyard. Total darkness reigns here, but for the faint glow from a large heap in its center: a smoldering pile of ash, its smooth black surface broken only by red glowing coals or fire-proof wreckage.
We hear a distant scream as another collaborator is lifted from his bed; then -much closer- uneven footsteps and the sound of a man humming.

The man staggers by mumbling, obviously under the influence of some drug. His silhouette is skinny and bent, almost elderly - though this may be an illusion caused by excessive indulgence into aforementioned drug; most likely Refrain.

An empty laugh as the man leans himself against a wall, and then slides down to melt into the shadows.

Everything is quiet again, his shadow blending into darkness. For seconds, there is nothing but black: silent, still as death. Then suddenly, from the top of that smoldering mound of ash, a sharp intake of breath, and a wheezing cough.

0000~L~0000

He breathed, and the last illusory fragment of piece was lost.

Dust scourged his lunges, and pain shot him to action. He sat up, breaking through a thick blanket of ash. True air suddenly flowed down his wind-pipe, past the sooth that clung to his insides. He leaned on one elbow to the side, as an uncontrollable coughing -almost retching- shook his slim frame.

Before his lungs had managed to emit the suffocating black substance, senses took note of a different pain: his elbow was resting on something very hot! Quickly changing position to his other side, he realized that all the ground around him was hot - no; his moving had disturbed the isolating layer of ash, and now he was burning—everywhere!

That's it! I am in hell - I've died and gone to hell!

It was the first conscious though he formed. But then his eye caught on a puddle of water, the sky's light reflecting on its still surface. And he was scrambling towards it, the smoldering mound burning hands and feet.
It seemed so far away, and then he was in the cooling water, hands and feet in the dirty mud, the painful sensation falling away to a dull ache.

First he simply knelt there, that mock emaciated frame that is trademark to adolescents reflecting off the black water. As more parts of his anatomy started to complain, he finally thought better of it and just laid down, face and chest sticking out from the black water.

A minute, then another passed. The young man found himself looking up at a star-filled sky. He listened to a dog bark in the distance.

It started to occur to him this 'hell' had an awful lot in common with plain old earth.

Then he became horribly aware of the foul smell of the pool he was immersed in.

This is very dirty water, he told himself. I had better get out of this and find some disinfectant before I catch necrosis!

Yet the young man could not force himself to leave the cool water. He took a deep breath.

"It's not that bad. It hardly hurts while I'm in here." - Well, except his hands and feet maybe. And that might be a problem, he realized; especially if he had to go barefoot.

"That is good to know!" an unknown voice rasped, answering the statement he had not even realized he had spoken aloud.

"Though what you were doing lying naked in a pile of ash is beyond me!"

This was enough to finally get the young man to his feet, and he stood up in the cooling water to locate the source of the voice: a bent frame in a far corner of the dark little courtyard; old and unsteady.

The youth smirked from under his wet bangs, letting his hair conspire with the darkness to hide his face.

"Ah, citizen! How fortunate of you to pass by."

Confident, he let his voice gain strength as he spoke; then, the young man then looked the old one straight in the eye, and commanded:

"Give me your clothes NOW!"

The old man stood unmoving for what seemed an eternity, but then rasped a laugh.

"Boy, you're flying higher then I am! Ah-ha!"

One hand stretched out to strengthen his commandment, the teen stood shocked; a pure reflection meeting him from the still water. Slowly, the possibility that the elderly addict was not going to obey him started to filter into his brain. And with it, an awareness that he was looking decidedly silly, striking such a pose, naked and mud-covered.

Obviously entertained by that same thought, said addict snickered.

Suddenly the elderly man's tone hardened though, an angry gleam in his eye catching the light.

"Say, wait a minute. I know your face!"

The youth staggered back. It was dark, but the old man apparently had good enough vision to-

"I know who you are!" the elderly repeated.

At that, the teen dropped his commanding stance, immediately turning on heel to flee; any thought of burns forgotten in sheer panic.

"I know you!" the old man screamed behind him, from the top of his lungs.

"You are Lelouch Vi Brittannia!"

That shaking elderly frame was obscured as Lelouch turned into an alley, running from the scene with all he had.

The screeching voice reached him nonetheless:

"You are the Demon King!"