The first thing he became aware of was the sound of a safety being disengaged.
A sharp, metallic click.
Then another.
And another.
His eyes snapped open.
Rifles—at least five of them—were aimed directly at him, unmoving, unwavering. Brown uniforms. White insignia. A firing line arranged with professional indifference.
An execution.
For half a second, instinct screamed death.
Then pain flared behind his left eye.
Not pain—awakening.
A burning pressure surged through his skull, deep and invasive, as if something ancient and deliberate had just finished carving its mark into his mind. His breath hitched. His vision blurred as a crimson symbol ignited in his left eye, reflected back at him in the visors of his executioners like a curse made visible.
You desire power, don't you?
The memory surfaced instantly.
Green hair.
A contract sealed not in words, but in inevitability.
"Oh," he thought calmly, even as fingers tightened on triggers all around him,
"So this is where I wake up."
One of the soldiers stepped forward, clearly enjoying the moment.
"Too bad about the woman," he said with a crooked smile. "I'll have to inform the prince that the hostage was unfortunately killed by the terrorists before we managed to secure her."
He paused deliberately, letting the lie settle in the air, then continued.
"As for you, boy, this really isn't your lucky day. Prince Clovis ordered all witnesses to be eliminated." His voice hardened. "All units—on my command—open fire on the terrorist."
Several soldiers adjusted their stance at once. Fingers settled firmly on triggers. Barrels aligned with lethal precision.
No panic.
No pleading.
Just a strange, almost inappropriate sense of clarity.
He became aware of his body in the same instant—the unfamiliar weight of it, the way his limbs rested too lightly, too precisely, as if they belonged to someone better trained than he remembered being. He glanced down just enough to see slender hands, pale skin, a school uniform torn and dirtied by the chaos above.
Lelouch Lamperouge.
The realization didn't hit like a breakdown.
It hit like a promotion.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Well," he thought, "this is an upgrade."
"Fire—"
"Kill yourselves."
The words were spoken almost casually.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then every soldier froze.
Not hesitated—froze.
Muscles locked. Breaths stalled. Eyes widened behind visors and naked gazes alike, fingers immobilized a fraction of a second before pulling their triggers.
Lelouch felt it then.
The Geass.
It wasn't effort. It wasn't strain. It was command—absolute and unquestioned—flowing outward the moment eye contact was made. He could feel it spreading through the firing line, latching onto every mind focused on him and rewriting a single piece of reality.
His left eye burned with exhilaration.
"Oh," he thought, amused now. "This is dangerous."
The first soldier moved.
Without a word, he raised his rifle beneath his chin.
The shot echoed through the tunnel.
Then another.
And another.
A pistol pressed against a temple.
A rifle barrel against a throat.
One after another, the soldiers carried out the command with mechanical obedience. Bodies collapsed onto the concrete floor, weapons clattering from lifeless fingers as blood spread across the ground.
No screams.
No resistance.
No struggle.
Just obedience.
Silence followed.
Lelouch inhaled slowly, savoring it.
"Interesting," he murmured. "I was expecting more friction."
A flicker of memory surfaced—canon Lelouch, panicked but defiant, gambling everything on his first use of the Geass. A child handed a loaded weapon and pulling the trigger out of desperation.
This wasn't that.
This was intent.
He stood, straightening his posture effortlessly. The body responded as if it had always been his—balanced, composed, commanding. He walked slowly among the corpses, boots crunching against spent shell casings.
One command.
That was all it had taken.
The smell of gunpowder filled the tunnel, thick and acrid. Blood pooled across the floor, seeping slowly into the cracks of the concrete. The Geass pulsed rhythmically now—alive, responsive, intoxicating.
Not once had they resisted.
These men had been ready to kill him only moments earlier.
Now they lay dead at his feet.